FARM    BALLADS 


BY  WILL  CARLETON. 


TLLUSTRA  TED. 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &     BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 
In   the  Office   of  the   Librarian   of   Congress,  at  Washington. 

Copyright,  1882,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


TO 


MY  MOTHER 


775698 


PREFACE. 


THESE  poems  have  been  written  under  various,  and,  in  some  cases,  diffi 
cult,  conditions;  in  the  open  air,  "with  team  afield;"  in  the  student's  den, 
with  the  ghosts  of  unfinished  lessons  hovering  gloomily  about;  amid  the 
rush  and  roar  of  railroad  travel,  which  trains  of  thought  are  not  prone  to 
follow;  and  in  the  editor's  sanctum,  where  the  dainty  feet  of  the  Muses  do 
not  often  deign  to  tread. 

Crude  and  unfinished  as  they  are,  the  author  has  yet  had  the  assurance 
to  publish  them,  from  time  to  time,  in  different  periodicals,  in  which,  it  is 
but  just  to  admit,  they  have  been  met  by  the  people  with  unexpected  favor. 
While  his  judgment  has  often  failed  to  endorse  the  kind  words  spoken  for 
them,  he  has  naturally  not  felt  it  in  his  heart  to  file  any  remonstrances. 

He  has  been  asked,  by  friends  in  all  parts  of  the  country,  to  put  his 
poems  into  a  more  durable  form  than  they  have  hitherto  possessed ;  and  it 
is  in  accordance  with  these  requests  that  he  now  presents  "  Farm  Ballads" 
to  the  public. 

Of  course  he  does  not  expect  to  escape,  what  he  needs  so  greatly,  the 
discipline  of  severe  criticism  ;  for  he  is  aware  that  he  has  often  wandered 
out  of  the  beaten  track,  and  has  many  times  been  too  regardless  of  the  es 
tablished  rules  of  rhythm,  in  his  (oftentimes  vain)  search  for  the  flowers 
of  poesy. 

But  he  believes  that  The  People  are,  after  all,  the  true  critics,  and  will 
soon  ascertain  whether  there  are  more  good  than  poor  things  in  a  book ; 
and  whatever  may  be  their  verdict  in  this  case,  he  has  made  up  his  mind 
to  be  happy. 

W.  C. 


PREFACE  TO  REVISED  EDITION. 


IT  has  been  deemed  best  to  revise  and  enlarge  this  book,  bringing 
it  up  in  size  to  other  members  of  the  "  FARM  SERIES."  All  the  old 
poems,  with  their  illustrations,  have  been  retained,  and  several  additions 
made. 

These  are  of  two  classes:  poems  written  some  ten  years  ago,  and 
omitted  in  former  editions,  and  some  written  during  the  past  year.  The 
author  has  not  taken  pains  to  distinguish  these  from  each  other  by  in 
serting  dates ;  he  prefers  to  let  each  one  stand  upon  its  own  merits,  or 
stumble  against  its  own  demerits,  without  the  advantage  or  disadvantage 
of  a  published  birth-year. 

He  is  sorry  the  whole  work  is  not  better,  and  still  rejoices  that  The 
People,  to  whom  he  appealed  in  his  first  preface,  nine  years  ago,  hava 
shown  a  continuous  appetite  for  the  book.  He  thanks  them,  and  takes 
courage  for  future  work. 

W.  C. 

1882. 


CONTENTS. 


FARM  BALLADS. 

PAGE 

Betsey  and  I  Are  Out 17 

How  Betsey  and  I  Made  Up 21 

Gone  with  a  Handsomer  Man 27 

Johnny  Rich 35 

Out  of  the  Old  House,  Nancy 43 

Over  the  Hill  to  the  Poor- House 51 

Over  the  Hill  from  the  Poor-House 59 

Uncle  /Sammy ! ,  , .  63 

Tom  was  Goirf  for  a  Poet 69 

Goirt  Home  To-Day 71 

Out  o'  the  Fire 73 

The  New  Church  Organ 77 

The  Editor's  Guests 82 

The  House  where  We  were  Wed. 89 

The  Mothers  Return 91 

How  Jamie  Came  Home 96 

The  Clang  of  the  Yankee  Reaper 101 

"  Why  should  they  Kill  My  Baby  ?" 105 

The  Old  Man  Meditates..                                                                                 .  107 


OTHER  POEMS. 

Apple-Blossoms 117 

Apples  Growing 119 

The  Christmas  Tree 121 

Autumn  Days 125 


1 2  Contents. 

PAGE 

The  Fading  Flower 120 

Picnic  Sam 128 

One  and  Two 137 

Death-Doomed 139 

Up  the  Line 141 

Foncard! ]  43 

The  Ship-Builder 146 

How  we  Kept  the  Day 149 

Our  Army  of  the  Dead 154 

" Mending  the  Old  Flag" ,156 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

"Draw  up  the  Papers,  Lawyer,  and  make  "*em  good  and  stout" Frontispiece 

"Give  us  your  Hand,  Mr.  Lawyer:  How  do  you  do  To-day?" 21 

"And  just  as  I  turned  a  Hill-top  I  see  the  Kitchen  Light" 22 

"And  intently  readin1  a  Neicspaper,  a-holdin1  it  wrong  Side  iip" 23 

"And  Kissed  me  for  the  first  Time  in  oner  Twenty  Years'" 24 

;' My  Betsey  rose  politely,  and  shoiced  her  out-of-doors  " 25 

"Curse  her!  curse  her!  say  I;  she'll  some  Time  rue  this  Day"" 29 

"  Why,  John,  what  a  Litter  here !  you've  thrown  Things  all  around  /" 33 

"^Tis  a  hairy  Sort  of  Night  for  a  Man  to  face  and  fight"1 37 

"When  you  walked  with  her  on  Sunday,  looking  sober,  straight,  and  clean" 39 

"And  you  lie  there,  quite  resigned,  Whisky  deaf  and  Whisky  Hind" 41 

"And  hid  the  Old  House  good-bye" 43 

"Settlers  come  to  see  that  Show  a  half  a  dozen  Miles" 45 

"  Right  in  there  the  Preacher,  witli  Bible  and  IIymn-l)ook,  stood  " 49 

"Over  the  Hill  to  the  Poor-House,  Fm  trudgm"1  my  weary  Way" 51 

"  Till  at  last  he  went  a-courtin'1,  and  brought  a  Wife  from  Town" 53 

"Many  a  Night  I've  watched  You  when  only  God  was  nigh" 57 

"Who  sat  with  him  long  at  his  Table,  and  explained  to  him  where  lie  stood" G5 

"Ag'in1  my  Voice  and  Vote" 79 

" Pve  bought  you  my  little  Boy  Jim" 85 

" What  was  my  Crime,  and  when  the  Time,  that  I  should  lice  to  see  this  Day?" 99 

"The  Clang  of  the  Jankee  Reaper,  on  Salisbury  Plain" 103 

"Nay,  Maggie,  let  my  old-style  fancies  he" 107 

"Now,  every  other  Mile  a /Sign-hoard  bars" 109 


1 2  Contents. 

PAGE 

The  Fading  Flower 126 

Picnic  Sam. . . 128 

One  and  Two 137 

Death-Doomed 139 

Up  the  Line 141 

Forward! J  43 

The  Ship-Builder 146 

How  we  Kept  the  Day 149 

Our  Army  of  the  Dead 154 

" Mending  the  Old  Flag" 156 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

"Draw  up  the  Papers,  Lawyer,  and  make  \m  good  and  stout" Frontispiece 

"  Give  us  your  Hand,  Mr.  Lawyer :  How  do  you  do  To-day?*' 21 

" And  just  as  I  turned  a  Hill-top  I  see  the  Kitchen  Light" 22 

'''And  intently  readiri1  a  Neicspaper,  a-holdiii1  it  wrong  Side  up" 23 

"And  Kissed  me  for  the  first  Time  in  over  Twenty  Years'" 24 

"My  Betsey  rose  politely,  and  showed  her  out-of-doors  " 25 

"Curse  her!  curse  her!  say  I;  she'll  some  Time  rue  this  Day'" 21) 

"  Why,  John,  what  a  Litter  here !  you've  thrown  Things  all  around  /" 33 

"'Tis  a  hairy  Sort  of  Night  for  a  Man  to  face  and  fight" 37 

"When  you  walked  with  her  on  Sunday,  looking  sober,  straight,  and  clean" 39 

"And  you  lie  there,  quite  resigned,  Whisky  deaf  and  Whisky  Nind" 41 

"And  lid  the  Old  House  good-bye" 43 

"Settlers  come  to  see  that  Show  a  half  a  dozen  Miles" 45 

"  Right  in  there  the  Preacher,  with  Bible  and  IIymn-l)ook,  stood  " 49 

"  Over  the  Hill  to  the  Poor-House,  I'm  trudgiii1  my  weary  Way" 51 

"Till  at  last  he  went  a-court'in"1,  and  brought  a  Wife  from  Town" 53 

"Many  a  Night  Pve  watched  You  when  only  God  was  nigh" 57 

"Who  sat  with  him  long  at  his  Table,  and  explained  to  him  where  he  stood" 65 

"  Ag'in?  my  Voice  and  Vote" 79 

"Pve  bought  you  my  little  Soy  Jim" 85 

" What  was  my  Crime,  and  when  the  Time,  that  I  should  lice  to  see  this  Day?" 99 

"  The  Clang  of  the  Yankee  Reaper,  on  Salisbury  Plain" 103 

"Nay,  Maggie,  let  my  old-style  fancies  he" 107 

"Now,  every  other  Mile  a  Sign-board  bars" 109 


1 4  Illustrations. 

PAGE 

"My  Whetstone  and  my  Scythe" 110 

"  Tour  Grandam  made  her  Own  trim  Wedding  Dress" 112 

"That  Young  Fellow  coming  down  the  Lane" 114 

"The  Sweet,  Love-planted  Christmas  Tree" 123 

"And  once  appeared  (rough  Brickbat  among  Pearls}  in  a  small,  timid  Infant  Class 

of  Girls!" 131 

"Poo?;  drenched,  dead  Hero!" 135 

"They  mended  away  through  the  Summer  Day" 157 


FARM  BALLADS 


FARM   BALLABSJ.. 


BETSEY  AND  I  ARE  OUT. 

DRAW  up  the  papers,  lawyer,  and  make  'em  good  and  stout; 
For  things  at  home  are  crossways,  and  Betsey  and  I  are  out. 
We,  who  have  worked  together  so  long  as  man  and  wife, 
Must  pull  in  single  harness  for  the  rest  of  our  nat'ral  life. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  say  you.     I  swan  it's  hard  to  tell! 
Most  of  the  years  behind  us  we've  passed  by  very  well; 
I  have  no  other  woman,  she  has  no  other  man- 
Only  we've  lived  together  as  long  as  we  ever  can. 

So  I  have  talked  with  Betsey,  and  Betsey  has  talked  with  me, 
And  so  we've  agreed  together  that  we  can't  never  agree ; 
Not  that  we've  catched  each  other  in  any  terrible  crime ; 
We've  been  a-gathering  this  for  years,  a  little  at  a  time. 

There  was  a  stock  of  temper  we  both  had  for  a  start, 
Although  we  never  suspected  'twould  take  us  two  apart; 
I  had  my  various  failings,  bred  in  the  flesh  and  bone; 
And  Betsey,  like  all  good  women,  had  a  temper  of  her  own. 

The  first  thing  I  remember  whereon  we  disagreed 
Was  something  concerning  heaven — a  difference  in  our  creed; 
We  arg'ed  the  thing  at  breakfast,  we  arg'ed  the  thing  at  tea, 
And  the  more  we  arg'ed  the  question  the  more  we  didn't  agree. 

2 


1 8  Farm  Ballads. 

And  the  next  that  I  remember  was  when  we  lost  a  cow ; 

She  had  kicked  the  bucket  for  certain,  the  question  was  only — How  ? 

I  held  my  own  opinion,  and  Betsey  another  had; 

And  when  we  were  done  a-talkin',  we  both  of  us  was  mad. 

And  t-i»-i  }iex:t  that  I  remember,  it  started  in  a  joke; 
But  full  for  a, week  it  lasted,  and  neither  of  us  spoke. 
And  ;the  .aex.t-  ,Was  when  I  scolded  because  she  broke  a  bowl> 
And  she  said  I  was  mean  and  stingy,  and  hadn't  any  soul. 

And  so  that  bowl  kept  pourin'  dissensions  in  our  cup ; 
And  so  that  blamed  cow-critter  was  always  a-comin'  up ; 
And  so  that  heaven  we  arg'ed  no  nearer  to  us  got, 
But  it  gave  us  a  taste  of  sornethin'  a  thousand  times  as  hot. 

And  so  the  thing  kept  workin',  and  all  the  self-same  way ; 
Always  somethin'  to  arg'e,  and  somethin'  sharp  to  say ; 
And  down  on  us  came  the  neighbors,  a  couple  dozen  strong, 
And  lent  their  kindest  sarvice  for  to  help  the  thing  along. 

And  there  has  been  days  together — and  many  a  weary  week;— 
We  was  both  of  us  cross  and  spunky,  and  both  too  proud  to  speak ; 
And  I  have  been  thinkin'  and  thinkin',  the  whole  of  the  winter  and  fall, 
If  I  can't  live  kind  with  a  woman,  why,  then,  I  won't  at  all. 

And  so  I  have  talked  with  Betsey,  and  Betsey  has  talked  with  rne, 
And  we  have  agreed  together  that  we  can't  never  agree ; 
And  what  is  hers  shall  be  hers,  and  what  is  mine  shall  be  mine; 
And  I'll  put  it  in  the  agreement,  and  take  it  to  her  to  sign. 

Write  on  the  paper,  lawyer — the  very  first  paragraph — 
Of  all  the  farm  and  live-stock  that  she  shall  have  her  half; 
For  she  has  helped  to  earn  it,  through  many  a  weary  day, 
And  it's  nothing  more  than  justice  that  Betsey  has  her  pay. 

Give  her  the  house  and  homestead — a  man  can  thrive  and  roam; 
But  women  are  skeery  critters,  unless  they  have  a  home; 
And  I  have  always  determined,  and  never  failed  to  sny, 
That  Betsey  never  should  want  a  home  if  I  was  taken  away, 


Betsey  and  I  Are  Out.  19 

There  is  a  little  hard  money  that's  drawin'  tol'rable  pay : 
A  couple  of  hundred  dollars  laid  by  for  a  rainy  day ; 
Safe  in  the  hands  of  good  men,  and  easy  to  get  at ; 
Put  in  another  clause  there,  and  give  her  half  of  that. 

Yes,  I  see  you  smile,  Sir,  at  my  givin'  her  so  much ; 
Yes,  divorce  is  cheap,  Sir,  but  I  take  no  stock  in  such ! 
True  and  fair  I  married  her,  when  she  was  blithe  and  young; 
And  Betsey  was  al'ays  good  to  me,  exceptin'  with  her  tongue. 


Once,  when  I  was  young  as  you,  and  not  so  smart,  perhaps, 
For  me  she  mittened  a  lawyer,  and  several  other  chaps; 
And  all  of  them  was  flustered,  and  fairly  taken  down, 
And  I  for  a  time  was  counted  the  luckiest  man  in  town. 

Once  when  I  had  a  fever — I  won't  forget  it  soon— 

I  was  hot  as  a  basted  turkey  and  crazy  as  a  loon  ; 

Never  an  hour  went  by  me  when  she  was  out  of  sight — 

She  nursed  me  true  and  tender,  and  stuck  to  ms  day  and  night. 

And  if  ever  a  house  was  tidy,  and  ever  a  kitchen  clean, 
Her  house  and  kitchen  was  tidy  as  any  I  ever  seen ; 
And  I  don't  complain  of  Betsey,  or  any  of  her  acts, 
Exceptin'  when  we've  quarreled,  and  told  each  other  facts. 


o  Farm  Ballads. 

So  draw  up  the  paper,  lawyer,  and  I'll  go  home  to-night, 

And  read  the  agreement  to  her,  and  see  if  it's  all  right; 

And  then,  in  the  mornin',  I'll  sell  to  a  tradin'  man  I  know, 

And  kiss  the  child  that  was  left  to  us,  and  out  in  the  world  I'll  go. 

And  one  thing  put  in  the  paper,  that  first  to  me  didn't  occur: 
That  when  I  am  dead  at  last  she'll  bring  me  back  to  her; 
And  lay  me  under  the  maples  I  planted  years  ago, 
When  she  and  I  was  happy  before  we  quarreled  so. 

And  when  she  dies  I  wish  that  she  would  be  laid  by  me, 
And,  lyin'  together  in  silence,  perhaps  we  will  agree; 
And,  if  ever  we  meet  in  heaven,  I  wouldn't  think  it  queer 
If  we  loved  each  other  the  better  because  we  quarreled  here, 


How  Betsey  and  I  Made  Up. 


21 


HOW  BETSEY  AND  I  MADE  UP. 

GIVE  us  your  hand,  Mr.  Lawyer:  how  do  you  do  to-day? 
You  drew  up  that  paper — I  s'pose  you  want  your  pay. 
Don't  cut  down  your  figures;  make  it  an  X  or  a  Y; 
For  that  'ere  written  agreement  was  just  the  makin'  of  me. 


"GIVE  us  YOUR  HAND,  MR.  LAWYER:  now  DO  YOU  DO  TO  DAT? 


Goin'  home  that  evenin'  I  tell  you  I  was  blue, 

Thinkin'  of  all  my  troubles,  and  what  I  was  goin  to  do; 

And  if  my  bosses  hadn't  been  the  steadiest  team  alive, 

They'd  Ve  tipped  me  over,  certain,  for  I  couldn't  see  where  to  drive. 


22 


Farm  Ballads. 


No — for  I  was  laborin'  under  a  heavy  load ; 

No — for  I  was  travelin'  an  entirely  different  road; 

For  I  was  a-tracin'  over  the  path  of  our  lives  ag'in, 

And  seem'  where  we  missed  the  way,  and  where  we  might  have  been 

And  many  a  corner  we'd  turned  that  just  to  a  quarrel  led, 
When  I  ought  to  Ve  held  my  temper,  and  driven  straight  ahead; 
And  the  more  I  thought  it  over  the  more  these  memories  came. 
And  the  more  I  struck  the  opinion  that  I  was  the  most  to  blame. 

And  things  I  had  long  forgotten  kept  risin'  in  my  mind, 

Of  little  matters  betwixt  us,  where  Betsey  was  good  and  kind; 

And  these  things  flashed  all  through  me,  as  you  know  things  sometimes  will 

When  a  feller's  alone  in  the  darkness,  and  every  thing  is  still. 

"But,"  says  I,  "we're  too  far  along  to  take  another  track, 
And  when  I  put  my  hand  to  the  plow  I  do  not  oft  turn  back; 


AND   JUST   AS   I   TURNED   A   HILL-TOP   I   SEE    THE    KITCHEN    LIGHT." 


How  Betsey  and  I  Made  Up. 

And  'tain't  an  uncommon  thing  now  for  couples  to  smash  in  two ;" 
And  so  I  set  my  teeth  together,  and  vowed  I'd  see  it  through. 

When  I  come  in  sight  o'  the  house  'twas  some'at  in  the  night, 
And  just  as  I  turned  a  hill-top  I  see  the  kitchen  light; 
Which  often  a  han'some  pictur'  to  a  hungry  person  makes, 
But  it  don't  interest  a  feller  much  that's  goin'  to  pull  up  stakes. 


;AND   INTENTLY  READIN1  A  NEWSPAPER,  A-HOLDIN'   IT  WRONG   SIDE  UP." 


And  when  I  went  in  the  house  the  table  was  set  for  me— 

As  good  a  supper's  I  ever  saw,  or  ever  want  to  see ; 

And  I  crammed  the  agreement  down  my  pocket  as  well  as  I  could, 

And  fell  to  eatin'  my  victuals,  which  somehow  didn't  taste  good. 

And  Betsey,  she  pretended  to  look  about  the  house, 

But  she  watched  my  side  coat  pocket  like  a  cat  would  watch  a  mouse; 

And  then  she  went  to  foolin'  a  little  with  her  cup, 

And  intently  readin'  a  newspaper,  a-holdin'  it  wrong  side  up. 


Farm  Ballads. 


—--—-i 

"AND  KISSED  ME  roil  THE  FIKST  TIME  IN  OVEK  TWENTY  YEARS!" 

And  when  I'd  done  my  supper  I  d rawed  the  agreement  out, 

And  give  it  to  her  without  a  word,  for  she  knowed  what  'twas  about; 

And  then  I  hummed  a  little  tune,  but  now  and  then  a  note 

Was  bu'sted  by  some  animal  that  hopped  up  in  my  throat. 

Then  Betsey  she  got  her  specs  from  off  the  mantel-shelf, 
And  read  the  article  over  quite  softly  to  herself; 
Read  it  by  little  and  little,  for  her  eyes  is  gettin'  old, 
And  lawyers'  writin'  ain't  no  print,  especially  when  it's  cold. 

And  after  she'd  read  a  little  she  give  my  arm  a  touch, 

And  kindly  said  she  was  afraid  I  was  'lowin'  her  too  much ; 

But  when  she  was  through  she  went  for  me,  her  face  a-streamin'  with  tears, 

And  kissed  me  for  the  first  time  in  over  twenty  years! 

1  don't  know  what  you'll  think,  Sir — I  didn't  come  to  inquire — 
But  I  picked  up  that  agreement  and  stuffed  it  in  the  fire ; 


How  Betsey  and  I  Made  Up. 

And  I  told  her  we'd  bury  the  hatchet  alongside  of  the  cow; 
And  we  struck  an  agreement  never  to  have  another  row. 

And  I  told  her  in  the  future  I  wouldn't  speak  cross  or  rash 
Jf  half  the  crockery  in  the  house  was  broken  all  to  smash ; 
And  she  said,  in  regards  to  heaven,  we'd  try  and  learn  its  worth 
By  startin'  a  branch  establishment  and  runnin'  it  here  on  earth. 

And  so  we  sat  a-talkin'  three-quarters  of  the  night, 
And  opened  our  hearts  to  each  other  until  they  both  grew  light; 
And  the  days  when  I  was  winnin'  her  away  from  so  many  men 
Was  nothin'  to  that  evenin'  I  courted  her  over  again. 

Next  mornin'  an  ancient  virgin  took  pains  to  call  on  us, 
Her  lamp  all  trimmed  and  a-burnin'  to  kindle  another  fuss; 
But  when  she  went  to  pryin'  and  openin'  of  old  sores, 
My  Betsey  rose  politely,  and  showed  her  out-of-doors. 


"MY   BETSEY   ROSE    POLITELY,  AND    SHOWED   HER   OUT-OF-DOORS." 

Since  then  I  don't  deny  but  there's  been  a  word  or  two ; 
But  we've  got  our  eyes  wide  open,  and  know  just  what  to  do: 
When  one  speaks  cross  the  other  just  meets  it  with  a  laugh, 
And  the  first  one's  ready  to  give  up  considerable  more  than  half. 

Maybe  you'll  think  me  soft,  Sir,  a-talkin'  in  this  style, 

But  somehow  it  does  me  lots  of  good  to  tell  it  once  in  a  while; 


26 


Farm  Ballads. 


And  I  do  it  for  a  compliment — 'tis  so  that  you  can  see 

That  that  there  written  agreement  of  yours  was  just  the  makin1  of  me. 

So  make  out  your  bill,  Mr.  Lawyer:  don't  stop  short  of  an  X; 
Make  it  more  if  you  want  to,  for  I  have  got  the  checks. 
I'm  richer  than  a  National  Bank,  with  all  its  treasures  told, 
For  I've  got  a  wife  at  home  now  that's  worth  her  weight  in  gold. 


Gone  witk  a  Handsomer  Man.  27 


GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMER  MAN. 


JOHN. 

I'VE  worked  in  the  field  all  day,  a-plowin'  the  "stony  streak;" 

I've  scolded  my  team  till  I'm  hoarse;  I've  tramped  till  my  legs  are  weak ; 

I've  choked  a  dozen  swears  (so's  not  to  tell  Jane  fibs) 

When  the  plow-p'int  struck  a  stone  and  the  handles  punched  my  ribs. 

I've  put  my  team  in  the  barn,  and  rubbed  their  sweaty  coats; 
I've  fed  'em  a  heap  of  hay  and  half  a  bushel  of  oats; 
And  to  see  the  way  they  eat  makes  me  like  eatin'  feel, 
And  Jane  won't  say  to-night  that  I  don't  make  out  a  meal. 

Well  said!  the  door  is  locked!  but  here  she's  left  the  key, 
Under  the  step,  in  a  place  known  only  to  her  and  me; 
I  wonder  who's  dyin'  or  dead,  that  she's  hustled  off  pell-mell : 
But  here  on  the  table's  a  note,  and  probably  this  will  tell. 

Good  God!  my  wife  is  gone!  my  wife  is  gone  astray! 

The  letter  it  says,  "  Good-bye,  for  I'm  a-going  away ; 

I've  lived  with  you  six  months,  John,  and  so  far  I've  been  true; 

But  I'm  going  away  to-day  with  a  handsomer  man  than  you." 

A  han'somer  man  than  me!     Why,  that  ain't  much  to  say; 
There's  han'somer  men  than  me  go  past  here  every  day. 
There's  han'somer  men  than  me — I  ain't  of  the  han'some  kind; 
But  a  lovirier  man  than  I  was  I  guess  she'll  never  find. 

Curse  her!   curse  her!   I  say,  and  give  my  curses  wings! 
May  the  words  of  love  I've  spoke  be  changed  to  scorpion  stings! 
Oh,  she  filled  my  heart  with  joy,  she  emptied  my  heart  of  doubt, 
And  now,  with  a  scratch  of  a  pen,  she  lets  my  heart's  blood  out! 


28  Farm  Ballads. 

Curse  her!  curse  her!  say  I;  she'll  some  time  rue  this  day; 
She'll  some  time  learn  that  hate  is  a  game  that  two  can  play; 
And  long  before  she  dies  she'll  grieve  she  ever  was  born ; 
And  I'll  plow  her  grave  with  hate,  and  seed  it  down  to  scorn ! 

As  sure  as  the  world  goes  on,  there'll  come  a  time  when  she 
Will  read  the  devilish  heart  of  that  han'somer  man  than  me ; 
And  there'll  be  a  time  when  he  will  find,  as  others  do, 
That  she  who  is  false  to  one  can  be  the  same  with  two. 

And  when  her  face  grows  pale,  and  when  her  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  when  he  is  tired  of  her  and  she  is  tired  of  him, 
She'll  do  what  she  ought  to  have  done,  and  coolly  count  the  cost; 
And  then  she'll  see  things  clear,  and  know  what  she  has  lost. 

And  thoughts  that  are  now  asleep  will  wake  up  in  her  mind, 
And  she  will  mourn  and  cry  for  what  she  has  left  behind ; 
And  maybe  she'll  sometimes  long  for  me — for  me — but  no! 
I've  blotted  her  out  of  my  heart,  and  I  will  not  have  it  so. 

And  yet  in  her  girlish  heart  there  was  somethin'  or  other  she  had 
That  fastened  a  man  to  her,  and  wasn't  entirely  bad; 
And  she  loved  me  a  little,  I  think,  although  it  didn't  last; 
But  I  mustn't  think  of  these  things — I've  buried  'em  in  the  past. 

I'll  take  my  hard  words  back,  nor  make  a  bad  matter  worse ; 

She'll  have  trouble  enough ;  she  shall  not  have  my  curse ; 

But  I'll  live  a  life  so  square — and  I  well  know  that  I  can — 

That  she  always  will  sorry  be  that  she  went  with  that  han'sorner  man. 

Ah,  here  is  her  kitchen  dress!  it  makes  my  poor  eyes  blur; 
It  seems,  when  I  look  at  that,  as  if  'twas  holdin'  her. 
And  here  are  her  week-day  shoes,  and  there  is  her  week-day  hat, 
And  yonder's  her  weddin'  gown :  I  wonder  she  didn't  take  that. 

'Twas  only  this  mornin'  she  came  and  called  me  her  "dearest  dear?ir 
And  said  I  was  makin'  for  her  a  regular  paradise  here ; 
O  God !  if  you  want  a  man  to  sense  the  pains  of  hell, 
Before  you  pitch  him  in  just  keep  him  in  heaven  a  spell ! 


Gone  with  a  Handsomer  Man. 

Good-bye!  I  wish  that  death  had  severed  us  two  apart. 
You've  lost  a  worshiper  here — you've  crushed  a  lovin'  heart. 
I'll  worship  no  woman  again  ;  but  I  guess  I'l],  learn  to  pray, 
And  kneel  as  you  used  to  kneel  before  you  run  away. 

And  if  I  thought  I  could  bring  my  words  on  heaven  to  bear? 
And  if  I  thought  I  had  some  little  influence  there, 
I  would  pray  that  I  might  be,  if  it  only  could  be  so, 
As  happy  and  gay  as  I  was  a  half  an  hour  ago. 


31 


JANE  (entering). 

Why,  John,  what  a  litter  here!  you've  thrown  things  all  around! 
Come,  what's  the  matter  now?  and  what  've  you  lost  or  found? 
And  here's  rny  father  here,  a-waiting  for  supper,  too; 
I've  been  a-riding  with  him — he's  that  "handsomer  man  than  you." 


32  Farm  Ballads. 

Ha !  ha  I     Pa,  take  a  seat,  while  I  put  the  kettle  on, 

And  get  things  ready  for  tea,  and  kiss  my  dear  old  John. 

Why,  John,  you  look  so  strange!     Come,  what  has  crossed  your  track? 

I  was  only  a-joking,  you  know ;  I'm  willing  to  take  it  back. 

JOHN  (aside). 

Well,  now,  if  this  ain't  a  joke,  with  rather  a  bitter  cream ! 
It  seems  as  if  I'd  woke  from  a  mighty  ticklish  drearn ; 
And  I  think  she  "smells  a  rat,"  for  she  smiles  at  me  so  queer; 
I  hope  she  don't;  good  Lord!  I  hope  that  they  didn't  hear! 

'Twas  one  of  her  practical  drives — she  thought  I'd  understand  1 
But  I'll  never  break  sod  again  till  I  get  the  lay  of  the  land, 
But  one  thing's  settled  with  me — to  appreciate  heaven  well, 
'Tis  good  for  a  man  to  have  some  fifteen  minutes  of  hell 


Johnny  Rick.  35 


JOHNNY  RICH. 

RAISE  the  light  a  little,  Jim, 

For  it's  getting  rather  dim, 
And,  with  such  a  storm  a-howlin',  'twill  not  do  to  douse  the  glim. 

Hustle  down  the  curtains,  Lu ; 

Poke  the  fire  a  little,  Su ; 
This  is  somethin'  of  a  flurry,  mother,  somethin'  of  a — whew ! 

Goodness  gracious,  how  it  pours! 

How  it  beats  ag'in  the  doors! 
You  will  have  a  hard  one,  Jimmy,  when  you  go  to  do  the  chores! 

Do  not  overfeed  the  gray; 

Give  a  plenty  to  the  bay; 
And  be  careful  with  your  lantern  when  you  go  among  the  hay. 

See  the  horses  have  a  bed 
When  you've  got  'em  fairly  fed ; 

Feed  the  cows  that's  in  the  stable,  and  the  sheep  that's  in  the  shed 
Give  the  spotted  cow  some  meal, 
Where  the  brindle  can  not  steal ; 

For  she's  greedy  as  a  porker,  and  as  slipp'ry  as  an  eel. 

Hang  your  lantern  by  the  ring, 

On  a  nail,  or  on  a  string ; 
For  the  Durham  calf  '11  bunt  it,  if  there's  any  such  a  thing: 

He's  a  handsome  one  to  see, 

And  a  knowin'  one  is  he: 
I  stooped  over  t'other  morning,  and  he  up  and  went  for  me! 

Rover  thinks  he  hears  a  noise! 
Just  keep  still  a  minute,  boys; 
Nellie,  hold  your  tongue  a  second,  and  be  silent  with  your  toys. 


36  Farm  Ballads. 

Stop  that  barkin',  now,  you  whelp, 
Or  I'll  kick  you  till  you  yelp ! 
Yes,  I  hear  it;  'tis  somebody  that's  callin'  out  for  help. 

Get  the  lantern,  Jim  and  Tom ; 

Mother,  keep  the  babies  calm, 
And  we'll  follow  up  that  halloa,  and  we'll  see  where  it  is  from. 

'Tis  a  hairy  sort  of  night 

For  a  man  to  face  and  fight; 
And  the  wind  is  blowin'-      Hang  it,  Jimmy,  bring  another  light 


Ah!  'twas  you,  then,  Johnny  Eich, 

Yelling  out  at  such  a  pitch, 
For  a  decent  man  to  help  you,  while  you  fell  into  the  ditch : 

'Tisn't  quite  the  thing  to  say, 

But  we  ought  to've  let  you  lay, 
While  your  drunken  carcass  died  a-drinkin'  water  any  way. 

And  to  see  you  on  my  floor, 

And  to  hear  the  way  you  snore, 
Now  we've  lugged  you  under  shelter,  and  the  danger  all  is  o'er; 

And  you  lie  there,  quite  resigned, 

Whisky  deaf,  and  whisky  blind, 
And  it  will  not  hurt  your  feelin's,  so  I  guess  I'll  free  my  mind. 

Do  you  mind,  you  thievin'  dunce, 

How  you  robbed  my  orchard  once, 
Takin'  all  the  biggest  apples,  leavin'  all  the  littlest  runts? 

Do  you  mind  my  melon-patch — 

How  you  gobbled  the  whole  batch, 
Stacked  the  vines,  and  sliced  the  greenest  melons,  just  to  raise  the  scratch  \ 

Do  you  think,  you  drunken  wag, 

It  was  any  thing  to  brag, 
To  be  cornered  in  my  hen-roost,  with  two  pullets  in  a  bag? 

You  are  used  to  dirty  dens; 

You  have  often  slept  in  pens; 
I've  a  mind  to  take  you  out  there  now,  and  roost  you  with  the  hens ! 


Johnny  Rich.  39 

Do  you  call  to  mind  with  me 

How,  one  night,  you  and  your  three 
Took  my  wagon  all  to  pieces  for  to  hang  it  on  a  tree? 

How  you  hung  it  up,  you  eels, 

Straight  and  steady,  by  the  wheels? 
I've  a  mind  to  take  you  out  there  now,  and  hang  you  by  your  heels! 

How,  the  Fourth  of  last  July, 

When  you  got  a  little  high, 
You  went  back  of  Wilson's  counter  when  you  thought  he  wasn't  nigh  ? 

How  he  heard  some  specie  chink, 

And  was  on  you  in  a  wink, 
And  you  promised  if  he'd  hush  it  that  you  never  more  would  drink  ? 


C.S.'w 

"WHEN  YOU  WALKED  WITH  HER  ON  SUNDAY,  LOOKING  SOBER,  STRAIGHT,  AND   CLEAN." 

Do  you  mind  our  temperance  hall? 

How  you're  always  sure  to  call, 
And  recount  your  reformation  with  the  biggest  speech  of  all  ? 

How  you  talk,  and  how  you  sing, 

That  the  pledge  is  just  the  thing — 
How  you  sign  it  every  winter,  and  then  smash  it  every  spring? 


4O  Farm  Ballads. 

Do  you  mind  how  Jennie  Green 

Was  as  happy  as  a  queen 
When  you  walked  with  her  on  Sunday,  looking  sober,  straight,  and  clean? 

How  she  cried  out  half  her  sight, 

When  you  staggered  by,  next  night, 
Twice  as  dirty  as  a  serpent,  and  a  hundred  times  as  tight? 

How  our  hearts  with  pleasure  warmed 

When  your  mother,  though  it  stormed. 
Run  up  here  one  day  to  tell  us  that  you  truly  had  reformed? 

How  that  very  self-same  day, 

When  upon  her  homeward  way, 
She  run  on  you,  where  you'd  hidden,  full  three-quarters  o'er  the  bay  ? 

Oh,  you  little  whisky -keg! 

Oh,  you  horrid  little  egg! 
You're  goin'  to  destruction  with  your  swiftest  foot  and  leg! 

I've  a  mind  to  take  you  out 

Underneath  the  water-spout, 
Just  to  rinse  you  up  a  little,  so  you'll  know  what  you're  about! 

But  you've  got  a  handsome  eye, 

And,  although  I  can't  tell  why, 
Somethm'  somewhere  in  you  always  lets  you  get  another  try? 

So,  for  all  that  I  have  said, 

I'll  not  douse  you ;  but,  instead, 
I  will  strip  you,  I  will  rub  you,  I  will  put  you  into  bed! 


Out  of  the  Old  House,  Nancy. 


43 


OUT  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE,  NANCY. 


OUT  of  the  old  house,  Nancy — moved  up  into  the  new ; 

All  the  hurry  and  worry  is  just  as  good  as  through. 

Only  a  bounden  duty  remains  for  you  and  I— 

And  that's  to  stand  on  the  door-step,  here,  and  bid  the  old  house  good-bye 


"AND  BID  THE  OLD  HOUSE  GOOD-BYE. 


What  a  shell  we've  lived  in,  these  nineteen  or  twenty  years! 
Wonder  it  hadn't  smashed  in,  and  tumbled  about  our  ears; 
Wonder  it's  stuck  together,  and  answered  till  to-day ; 
But  every  individual  log  was  put  up  here  to  stay. 


44  Farm  Ballads. 

Things  looked  rather  new,  though,  when  this  old  house  was  built-, 
And  things  that  blossomed  you  would  've  made  some  women  wilt; 
And  every  other  day,  then,  as  sure  as  day  would  break, 
My  neighbor  Ager  come  this  way,  invitin'  rne  to  "shake." 

And  you,  for  want  of  neighbors,  was  sometimes  blue  and  sad? 
For  wolves  and  bears  and  wild-cats  was  the  nearest  ones  you  had ; 
But  lookin'  ahead  to  the  clearin',  we  worked  with  all  our  might, 
Until  we  was  fairly  out  of  the  woods,  and  things  was  goin'  right. 

Look  up  there  at  our  new  house! — ain't  it  a  thing  to  see? 
Tall  and  big  and  handsome,  and  new  as  new  can  be; 
All  in  apple-pie  order,  especially  the  shelves, 
And  never  a  debt  to  say  but  what  we  own  it  all  ourselves. 

Look  at  our  old  log-house — how  little  it  now  appears! 

But  it's  never  gone  back  on  us  for  nineteen  or  twenty  years; 

An'  I  won't  go  back  on  it  now,  or  go  to  pokin'  fun — 

There's  such  a  thing  as  praisin'  a  thing  for  the  good  that  it  has  done. 

Probably  you  remember  how  rich  we  was  that  night, 

When  we  was  fairly  settled,  an'  had  things  snug  and  tight: 

We  feel  as  proud  as  you  please,  Nancy,  over  our  house  that's  new, 

But  we  felt  as  proud  under  this  old  roof,  and  a  good  deal  prouder,  too. 

Never  a  handsomer  house  was  seen  beneath  the  sun : 

Kitchen  and  parlor  and  bedroom — we  had  'em  all  in  one; 

And  the  fat  old  wooden  clock  that  we  bought  when  we  come  West? 

Was  tickin'  away  in  the  corner  there,  and  doin'  its  level  best. 

Trees  was  all  around  us,  a-whisperin'  cheering  words; 

Loud  was  the  squirrel's  chatter,  and  sweet  the  songs  of  birds ; 

And  home  grew  sweeter  and  brighter — our  courage  began  to  mount — 

And  things  looked  hearty  and  happy  then,  and  work  appeared  to  count. 

And  here  one  night  it  happened,  when  things  was  goin'  bad, 
We  fell  in  a  deep  old  quarrel — the  first  we  ever  had ; 
And  when  you  give  out  and  cried,  then  I,  like  a  fool,  give  in, 
And  then  we  agreed  to  rub  all  out,  and  start  the  thing  ag'in. 


Out  of  the  Old  House,  Nancy.  47 

Here  it  was,  you  remember,  we  sat  when  the  day  was  done, 
And  you  was  a-makin'  clothing  that  wasn't  for  either  one; 
And  often  a  soft  word  of  love  I  was  soft  enough  to  say, 
And  the  wolves  was  howlin'  in  the  woods  not  twenty  rods  away. 

Then  our  first-born  baby — a  regular  little  joy, 

Though  I  fretted  a  little  because  it  wasn't  a  boy : 

Wa'n't  she  a  little  flirt,  though,  with  all  her  pouts  and  smiles? 

Why,  settlers  come  to  see  that  show  a  half  a  dozen  miles. 

Yonder  sat  the  cradle — a  homely,  home-made  thing, 
And  many  a  night  I  rocked  it,  providin'  you  would  sing; 
And  many  a  little  squatter  brought  up  with  us  to  stay— 
And  so  that  cradle,  for  many  a  year,  was  never  put  away. 

How  they  kept  a-comin',  so  cunnin'  and  fat  and  small ! 
How  they  growed !  'twas  a  wonder  how  we  found  room  for  'em  all ; 
But  though  the  house  was  crowded,  it  empty  seemed  that  day 
When  Jennie  lay  by  the  fire-place,  there,  and  moaned  her  life  away. 

And  right  in  there  the  preacher,  with  Bible  and  hymn-book,  stood, 
'"Twixt  the  dead  and  the  living,"  and  "hoped  'twould  do  us  good;' 
And  the  little  whitewood  coffin  on  the  table  there  was  set, 
And  now  as  I  rub  my  eyes  it  seems  as  if  I  could  see  it  yet. 

Then  that  fit  of  sickness  it  brought  on  you,  you  know; 

Just  by  a  thread  you  hung,  and  you  e'en-a'most  let  go; 

And  here  is  the  spot  I  tumbled,  an'  give  the  Lord  his  due. 

When  the  doctor  said  the  fever'd  turned,  an'  he  could  fetch  you  through 

Yes,  a  deal  has  happened  to  make  this  old  house  dear: 
Christenings,  funerals,  weddin's — what  haven't  we  had  here? 
Not  a  log  in  this  buildin'  but  its  memories  has  got, 
And  not  a  nail  in  this  old  floor  but  touches  a  tender  spot. 

Out  of  the  old  house,  Nancy — moved  up  into  the  new ; 

All  the  hurry  and  worry  is  just  as  good  as  through; 

But  I  tell  you  a  thing  right  here,  that  I  ain't  ashamed  to  say, 

There's  precious  things  in  this  old  house  we  never  can  take  away. 


48  Farm  Ballads. 

Here  the  old  house  will  stand,  but  not  as  it  stood  before: 
Winds  will  whistle  through  it,  and  rains  will  flood  the  floor; 
And  over  the  hearth,  once  blazing,  the  snow-drifts  oft  will  pile, 
And  the  old  thing  will  seem  to  be  a-mournin'  all  the  while. 

Fare  you  well,  old  house !  you're  naught  that  can  feel  or  see. 
But  you  seem  like  a  human  being — a  dear  old  friend  to  me; 
And  we  never  will  have  a  better  home,  if  my  opinion  stands, 
Until  we  commence  a-keepin'  house  in  the  house  not  made  with  hands. 


Over  the  Hill  to  the  Poor-House. 


51 


OVER  THE  HILL  TO  THE  POOR-HOUSE. 

OVER  the  hill  to  the  poor-house  I'm  trudgin'  my  weary  way- 
I,  a  woman  of  seventy,  and  only  a  trifle  gray— 
I,  who  am  smart  an'  chipper,  for  all  the  years  I've  told, 
As  many  another  woman  that's  only  half  as  old. 


OVER  THE   HILL   TO   THE  POOR-HOUSE,  I'M   TRUDGIN'  MY  WEARY  WAY, 


\  Farm  Ballads. 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house — I  can't  quite  make  it  clear! 
Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house — it  seems  so  horrid  queer! 
Many  a  step  I've  taken  a-toilin'  to  and  fro, 
But  this  is  a  sort  of  journey  I  never  thought  to  go. 

What  is  the  use  of  heapin'  on  me  a  pauper's  shame? 
Am  I  lazy  or  crazy?  am  I  blind  or  lame? 
True,  I  am  not  so  supple,  nor  yet  so  awful  stout; 
But  charity  ain't  no  favor,  if  one  can  live  without. 

I  am  willin'  and  anxious  an'  ready  any  day 
To  work  for  a  decent  livin',  an'  pay  my  honest  way ; 
For  I  can  earn  rny  victuals,  an'  more  too,  I'll  be  bound, 
If  any  body  only  is  willin'  to  have  me  round. 

Once  I  was  young  an'  han'some — I  was,  upon  my  soul — 
Once  my  cheeks  was  roses,  my  eyes  as  black  as  coal ; 
And  I  can't  remember,  in  them  days,  of  hearin'  people  say, 
For  any  kind  of  a  reason,  that  I  was  in  their  way. 

'Tain't  no  use  of  boastin',  or  talkin'  over  free, 
But  many  a  house  an'  home  was  open  then  to  me; 
Many  a  han'some  offer  I  had  from  likely  men, 
And  nobody  ever  hinted  that  I  was  a  burden  then. 

And  when  to  John  I  was  married,  sure  he  was  good  and  smart, 
But  he  and  all  the  neighbors  would  own  I  done  my  part; 
For  life  was  all  before  me,  an'  I  was  young  an'  strong, 
And  I  worked  the  best  that  I  could  in  tryin'  to  get  along. 

And  so  we  worked  together:  and  life  was  hard,  but  gay, 
With  now  and  then  a  baby  for  to  cheer  us  on  our  way ; 
Till  we  had  half  a  dozen,  an'  all  growed  clean  an'  neat, 
An'  went  to  school  like  others,  an'  had  enough  to  eat. 

So  we  worked  for  the  child'rn,  and  raised  'em  every  one; 
Worked  for  'em  summer  and  winter,  just  as  we  ought  to  've  done; 
Only  perhaps  we  humored  'em,  which  some  good  folks  condemn, 
But  every  couple's  child'rn's  a  heap  the  best  to  them. 


Over  the  Hill  to  the  Poor-House.  55 

Strange  how  much  we  think  of  our  blessed  little  ones! — 
I'd  have  died  for  my  daughters,  I'd  have  died  for  my  sons; 
And  God  he  made  that  rule  of  love;  but  when  we're  old  and  grayi 
I've  noticed  it  sometimes  somehow  fails  to  work  the  other  way. 

Strange,  another  thing,  when  our  boys  an'  girls  was  grown, 
And  when,  exceptin'  Charley,  they'd  left  us  there  alone; 
When  John  he  nearer  an'  nearer  come,  an'  dearer  seemed  to  be, 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  he  come  one  day  an'  took  him  away  from  me. 

Still  I  was  bound  to  struggle,  an'  never  to  cringe  or  fall — 

Still  I  worked  for  Charley,  for  Charley  was  now  my  all ; 

And  Charley  was  pretty  good  to  me,  with  scarce  a  word  or  frown. 

Till  at  last  he  went  a-courtin',  and  brought  a  wife  from  town. 

She  was  somewhat  dressy,  an'  hadn't  a  pleasant  smile — 
She  was  quite  conceity,  and  carried  a  heap  o'  style; 
But  if  ever  I  tried  to  be  friends,  I  did  with  her,  I  know ; 
But  she  was  hard  and  proud,  an'  I  couldn't  make  it  go. 

She  had  an  edication,  an'  that  was  good  for  her; 
But  when  she  twitted  me  on  mine,  'twas  carryin'  things  too  fur; 
An'  I  told  her  once,- 'fore  company  (an'  it  almost  made  her  sick), 
That  I  never  swallowed  a  grammar,  or  'et  a  'rithmetic. 

So  'twas  only  a  few  days  before  the  thing  was  done — 
They  was  a  family  of  themselves,  and  I  another  one; 
And  a  very  little  cottage  one  family  will  do, 
But  I  never  have  seen  a  house  that  was  big  enough  for  two. 

An'  I  never  could  speak  to  suit  her,  never  could  please  her  eye, 
An'  it  made  me  independent,  an'  then  I  didn't  try; 
But  I  was  terribly  staggered,  an'  felt  it  like  a  blow, 
When  Charley  turned  ag'in  me,  an'  told  me  I  could  go. 

I  went  to  live  with  Susan,  but  Susan's  house  was  small, 

And  she  was  always  a  hintin'  how  snug  it  was  for  us  all ; 

And  what  with  her  husband's  sisters,  and  what  with  child'rn   three, 

'Twas  easv  to  discover  that  there  wasn't  room  for  me. 


56  Farm  Ballads'. 

An'  then  I  went  to  Thomas,  the  oldest  son  I've  got, 
For  Thomas's  buildings  'd  cover  the  half  of  an  acre  lot; 
But  all  the  child'rn  was  on  me — I  couldn't  stand  their  sauce — 
And  Thomas  said  I  needn't  think  I  was  comin'  there  to  boss. 

An'  then  I  wrote  to  Kebecca,  rnj  girl  who  lives  out  West, 
And  to  Isaac,  not  far  from  her — some  twenty  miles  at  best; 
And  one  of  'em  said  'twas  too  warm  there  for  any  one  so  old, 
And  t'other  had  an  opinion  the  climate  was  too  cold. 

So  they  have  shirked  and  slighted  me,  an'  shifted  me  about — - 
So  they  have  well-nigh  soured  me,  an'  wore  my  old  heart  out; 
But  still  I've  borne  up  pretty  well,  an'  wasn't  much  put  down, 
Till  Charley  went  to  the  poor-master,  an'  put  me  on  the  town. 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house — my  child'rn  dear,  good-by ! 
Many  a  night  I've  watched  you  when  only  God  was  nigh; 
And  God  '11  judge  between  us;  but  I  will  al'ays  pray 
That  you  shall  never  suffer  the  half  I  do  to-day. 


Over  the  Hill  from  the  Poor-House.  59 


OVER  THE  HILL  FROM  THE  POOR-HOUSE. 

I,  WHO  was  always  counted,  they  say, 
Eather  a  bad  stick  any  way, 
Splintered  all  over  with  dodges  and  tricks. 
Known  as  "the  worst  of  the  Deacon's  six;'* 
I,  the  truant,  saucy  and  bold, 
The  one  black  sheep  in  my  father's  fold, 
"Once  on  a  time,"  as  the  stories  say, 
Went  over  the  hill  on  a  winter's  day— 
Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house. 

Tom  could  save  what  twenty  could  earn  ; 
But  givin'  was  somethin'  he  ne'er  would  learn ; 
Isaac  could  half  o'  the  Scriptur's  speak— 
Committed  a  hundred  verses  a  week; 
Never  forgot,  an'  never  slipped; 
But  "Honor  thy  father  and  mother"  he  skipped^ 
So  over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house. 

As  for  Susan,  her  heart  was  kind 
An'  good — what  there  was  of  it,  mind; 
Nothin'  too  big,  an'  nothin'  too  nice, 
Nothin'  she  wouldn't  sacrifice 
For  one  she  loved ;  an'  that  'ere  one 
Was  herself,  when  all  was  said  an'  done. 
An'  Charley  an'  'Becca  meant  well,  no  doubt 
But  any  one  could  pull  'em  about; 

An'  all  o'  our  folks  ranked  well,  you  see, 
Save  one  poor  fellow,  and  that  was  me; 


60  Farm  Ballads. 

An'  when,  one  dark  an'  rainy  night, 

A  neighbor's  horse  went  out  o'  sight, 

They  hitched  on  me,  as  the  guilty  chap 

That  carried  one  end  o'  the  halter-strap. 

An'  I  think,  myself,  that  view  of  the  case 

Wasn't  altogether  out  o'  place; 

My  mother  denied  it,  as  mothers  do, 

But  I  am  inclined  to  believe  'twas  true. 

Though  for  me  one  thing  might  be  said — 

That  I,  as  well  as  the  horse,  was  led ; 

And  the  worst  of  whisky  spurred  me  on, 

Or  else  the  deed  would  have  never  been  dona 

But  the  keenest  grief  I  ever  felt 

Was  when  my  mother  beside  me  knelt, 

An'  cried  an'  prayed,  till  I  melted  down, 

As  I  wouldn't  for  half  the  horses  in  town. 

I  kissed  her  fondly,  then  an'  there, 

An'  swore  henceforth  to  be  honest  and  square, 

I  served  my  sentence — a  bitter  pill 

Some  fellows  should  take  who  never  will; 

And  then  I  decided  to  go  "out  West," 

Concludin'  'twould  suit  my  health  the  best; 

Where,  how  I  prospered,  I  never  could  tell, 

But  Fortune  seemed  to  like  me  well, 

An'  somehow  every  vein  I  struck 

Was  always  bubblin'  over  with  luck. 

An',  better  than  that,  I  was  steady  an'  true, 

An'  put  my  good  resolutions  through. 

But  I  wrote  to  a  trusty  old  neighbor,  an'  said, 

"You  tell  'em,  old  fellow,  that  I  am  dead, 

An'  died  a  Christian ;  'twill  please  'ern  more, 

Than  if  I  had  lived  the  same  as  before." 

But  when  this  neighbor  he  wrote  to  me, 
"  Your  mother's  in  the  poor-house,"  says  he, 
I  had  a  resurrection  straightway, 
An'  started  for  her  that  very  day. 


Over  the  Hill  from  the  Poor-House.  61 

And  when  I  arrived  where  I  was  grown, 

I  took  good  care  that  I  shouldn't  be  known ; 

But  I  bought  the  old  cottage,  through  and  through, 

Of  some  one  Charley  had  sold  it  to ; 

And  held  back  neither  work  nor  gold, 

To  fix  it  up  as  it  was  of  old. 

The  same  big  fire-place  wide  an'  high, 

Flung  up  its  cinders  toward  the  sky ; 

The  old  clock  ticked  on  the  corner-shelf— 

I  wound  it  an'  set  it  agoin'  myself; 

An'  if  every  thing  wasn't  just  the  same, 

Neither  I  nor  money  was  to  blarne ; 

Then — over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house! 

One  blowin',  blusterin'  winter's  day, 
With  a  team  an'  cutter  I  started  away ; 
My  riery  nags  was  as  black  as  coal ; 
(They  some'at  resembled  the  horse  I  stole): 
I  hitched,  an'  entered  the  poor-house  door — 
A  poor  old  woman  was  scrubbin'  the  floor; 
She  rose  to  her  feet  in  great  surprise, 
And  looked,  quite  startled,  into  my  eyes; 
I  saw  the  whole  of  her  trouble's  trace 
In  the  lines  that  marred  her  dear  old  face; 
"Mother!"  I  shouted,  "your  sorrows  is  done! 
You're  adopted  along  o'  your  horse-thief  son, 
Come  over  the  hill  from  the  poor-house  I 

She  didn't  faint;  she  knelt  by  my  side, 
An'  thanked  the  Lord,  till  I  fairly  cried. 
An'  maybe  our  ride  wasn't  pleasant  an'  gay, 
An'  maybe  she  wasn't  wrapped  up  that  day ; 
An'  maybe  our  cottage  wasn't  warm  an'  bright, 
An'  maybe  it  wasn't  a  pleasant  sight, 
To  see  her  a-gettin'  the  evenin's  tea, 
An'  frequently  stoppin'  and  kissin'  me; 
An'  maybe  we  didn't  live  happy  for  years, 
In  spite  of  my  brothers'  and  sisters'  sneers, 


52  Farm  Ballads. 

Who  often  said,  as  I  have  heard, 
That  they  wouldn't  own  a  prison-bird ; 
(Though  they're  gettin'  over  that,  I  guess. 
For  all  of  'em  owe  me  more  or  less) ; 

But  I've  learned  one  thing;  an'  it  cheers  a  man 

In  always  a-doin'  the  best  he  can  ; 

That  whether,  on  the  big  book,  a  blot 

Gets  over  a  fellow's  name  or  not, 

Whenever  he  does  a  deed  that's  white, 

It's  credited  to  him  fair  and  right. 

An'  when  you  hear  the  great  bugle's  notes. 

An'  the  Lord  divides  his  sheep  an'  goats; 

However  they  may  settle  my  case, 

Wherever  they  may  fix  my  place, 

My  good  old  Christian  mother,  you'll  see, 

Will  be  sure  to  stand  right  up  for  me, 

With  over  the  hill  from  the  poor-house. 


Uncle  Sammy. 


UNCLE  SAMMY. 

SOME  men  were  born  for  great  things, 

Some  were  born  for  small ; 
Some — it  is  not  recorded 

Why  they  were  born  at  all ; 
But  Uncle  Sammy  was  certain  he  had  a  legitimate  call. 

Some  were  born  with  a  talent, 

Some  with  scrip  and  land ; 
Some  with  a  spoon  of  silver, 

And  some  with  a  different  brand ; 
But  Uncle  Sammy  came  holding  an  argument  in  each  hand. 

Arguments  sprouted  within  him, 
And  twinked  in  his  little  eye; 
He  lay  and  calmly  debated 

When  average  babies  cry, 
And  seemed  to  be  pondering  gravely  whether  to  live  or  to  die. 

But  prejudiced  on  that  question 

He  grew  from  day  to  day, 
And  finally  he  concluded 

'Twas  better  for  him  to  stay ; 
And  so  into  life's  discussion  he  reasoned  and  reasoned  his  way. 

Through  childhood,  through  youth,  into  manhood 

Argued  and  argued  he; 
And  he  married  a  simple  maiden, 

Though  scarcely  in  love  was  she; 
But  he  reasoned  the  matter  so  clearly  she  hardly  could  help  but  agree. 


64  Farm  Ballads, 

And  though  at  first  she  was  blooming, 

And  the  new  firm  started  strong, 
And  though  Uncle  Sammy  loved  her, 

And  tried  to  help  her  along, 
She  faded  away  in  silence,  and  'twas  evident  something  was  wrong. 

Now  Uncle  Sammy  was  faithful, 

And  various  remedies  tried ; 
He  gave  her  the  doctor's  prescriptions, 

And  plenty  of  logic  beside ; 
But  logic  and  medicine  failed  him,  and  so  one  day  she  died. 

He  laid  her  away  in  the  church -yard, 
So  haggard  arid  crushed  and  wan  ; 
And  reared  her  a  costly  tombstone 

With  all  of  her  virtues  on  ; 
And  ought  to  have  added,  "A  victim  to  arguments  pro  and  con." 

For  many  a  year  Uncle  Sammy 

Fired  away  at  his  logical  forte: 
Discussion  was  his  occupation, 

And  altercation  his  sport; 
He  argued  himself  out  of  churches,  he  argued  himself  into  court. 

But  alas  for  his  peace  and  quiet, 

One  day,  when  he  went  it  blind, 
And  followed  his  singular  fancy, 

And  slighted  his  logical  mind, 
And  married  a  ponderous  widow  that  wasn't  of  the  arguing  kind! 

Her  sentiments  all  were  settled, 

Her  habits  were  planted  and  grown, 
Her  heart  was  a  starved  little  creature 

That  followed  a  will  of  her  own ; 
And  she  raised  a  high  hand  with  Sammy,  and  proceeded  to  play  it  alone 

Then  Sammy  he  charged  down  upon  her 
With  all  of  his  strength  and  his  wit, 


5 


Uncle  Sammy.  67 

And  many  a  dextrous  encounter, 
And  many  a  fair  shoulder-hit; 
But  vain  were  his  blows  and  his  blowing:  he  never  could  budge  her  a  bit. 

He  laid  down  his  premises  round  her, 

He  scraped  at  her  with  his  saws; 
fie  rained  great  facts  upon  her, 

And  read  her  the  marriage  laws; 
But  the  harder  he  tried  to  convince  her,  the  harder  and  harder  she  was, 

She  brought  home  all  her  preachers, 

As  many  as  ever  she  could — 
With  sentiments  terribly  settled, 

And  appetites  horribly  good — 
Who  sat  with  him  long  at  his  table,  and  explained  to  him  where  he  stood. 

And  Sammy  was  not  long  in  learning 

To  follow  the  swing  of  her  gown, 
And  came  to  be  faithful  in  watching 

The  phase  of  her  smile  and  her  frown ; 
And  she,  with  the  heel  of  assertion,  soon  tramped  all  his  arguments  down. 

And  so,  with  his  life-aspirations 

Thus  suddenly  brought  to  a  check — 
And  so,  with  the  foot  of  his  victor 

Unceasingly  pressing  his  neck — 
He  wrote  on  his  face,  "  I'm  a  victim,"  and  drifted — a  logical  wreck. 

And  farmers,  whom  he  had  argued 

To  corners  tight  and  fast, 
Would  wink  at  each  other  and  chuckle, 

And  grin  at  him  as  he  passed,  [last." 

As  to  say,  "  My  ambitious  old  fellow,  your  whiffletree's  straightened  at 

Old  Uncle  Samm}^  one  morning 

Lay  down  on  his  comfortless  bed, 
And  Death  and  he  had  a  discussion, 

And  Death  came  out  ahead ; 
And  the  fact  that  SHE  failed  to  start  him  was  only  because  he  was  dead. 


68 


Farm  Ballads, 


The  neighbors  laid  out  their  old  neighbor, 

With  homely  but  tenderest  art; 
And  some  of  the  oldest  ones  faltered, 

And  tearfully  stood  apart; 
For  the  crusty  old  man  had  often  unguardedly  shown  them  his  heart. 

But  on  his  face  an  expression 

Of  quizzical  study  lay, 
As  if  he  were  sounding  the  angel 

Who  traveled  with  him  that  day, 
And  laying  the  pipes  down  slyly  for  an  argument  on  the  way. 

And  one  new-fashioned  old  lady 

Felt  called  upon  to  suggest 
That  the  angel  might  take  Uncle  Sammy, 

And  give  him  a  good  night's  rest, 
And  then  introduce  him  to  Solomon,  and  tell  him  to  do  his  best. 


Tom  was  Goiri  for  a  Poet.  69 


TOM  WAS  GOIN'  FOR  A  POET. 

The  Farmer  Discourses  of  his  Son. 

TOM  was  goin'  foi-  a  poet,  an'  said  he'd  a  poet  be; 

One  of  these  long-haired  fellers  a  feller  hates  to  see; 

One  of  these  chaps  forever  fixin'  things  cute  and  clever; 

Makin'  the  world  in  gen'ral  step  'long  to  tune  an'  time, 

An'  cuttin'  the  earth  into  slices  an'  saltin'  it  down  into  rhyme. 

Poets  are  good  for  something  so  long  as  they  stand  at  the  head 
But  poetry's  worth  whatever  it  fetches  in  butter  an'  bread. 
An'  many  a  time  I've  said  it:    it  don't  do  a  fellow  credit, 
To  starve  with  a  hole  in  his  elbow,  an'  be  considered  a  fool, 
So  after  he's  dead,  the  young  ones  '11  speak  his  pieces  in  school. 

An'  Tom,  he  had  an  opinion  that  Shakspeare  an'  all  the  rest, 
With  all  their  winter  clothin',  couldn't  make  him  a  decent  vest; 
But  that  didn't  ease  my  labors,  or  help  him  among  the  neighbors, 
Who  watched  him  from  a  distance,  an'  held  his  mind  in  doubt, 
An'  wondered  if  Tom  wasn't  shaky,  or  knew  what  he  was  about. 

Tom  he  went  a-sowin',  to  sow  a  field  of  grain ; 

But  half  of  that  'ere  sowin'  was  altogether  in  vain. 

For  he  was  al'ays  a-stoppin',  and  gems  of  poetry  droppin' ; 

And  metaphors,  they  be  pleasant,  but  much  too  thin  to  eat; 

And  germs  of  thought  be  handy,  but  never  grow  up  to  wheat. 

Tom  he  went  a-mowin',  one  broilin'  summer's  day, 

An'  spoke  quite  sweet  concernin'  the  smell  of  the  new-mowed  hay 

But  all  o'  his  useless  chatter  didn't  go  to  help  the  matter, 

Or  make  the  grief  less  searchin'  or  the  pain  less  hard  to  feel, 

When  he  made  a  clip  too  suddent,  an'  sliced  his  brother's  heel. 


jo  Farm  Ballads. 

Torn  he  went  a-drivin'  the  hills  an'  dales  across; 

But,  scannin'  the  lines  of  his  poetry,  he  dropped  the  lines  of  his  hoss. 

The  nag  ran  fleet  and  fleeter,  in  quite  irregular  metre; 

An'  when  we  got  Tom's  leg  set,  an'  had  fixed  him  so  he  could  speak, 

He  muttered  that  that  adventur'  would  keep  him  a-writin'  a  week. 

Tom  he  went  a-pioughin',  and  couldn't  have  done  it  worse ; 
He  sat  down  on  the  handles,  an'  went  to  spinnin'  verse. 
He  wrote  it  nice  and  pretty — an  agricultural  ditty ; 
But  all  o'  his  pesky  measures  didn't  measure  an  acre  more, 
Nor  his  p'ints  didn't  turn  a  furrow  that  wasn't  turned  before. 

Tom  he  went  a-courtin' ; — she  liked  him,  I  suppose; 

But  certain  parts  of  courtin'  a  feller  must  do  in  prose. 

He  rhymed  her  each  day  a  letter,  but  that  didn't  serve  to  get  her 

He  waited  so  long,  she  married  another  man  from  spite, 

An'  sent  him  word  she'd  done  it,  an'  not  to  forget  to  write. 

Tom  at  last  got  married  ;  his  wife  was  smart  and  stout, 
An'  she  shoved  up  the  window  and  slung  his  poetry  out. 
An'  at  each  new  poem's  creation  she  gave  it  circulation ; 
An'  fast  as  he  would  write  'em,  she  seen  to  their  puttin'  forth, 
An'  sent  'em  east  an'  westward,  an'  also  south  an'  north. 

Till  Tom  he  struck  the  opinion  that  poetry  didn't  pay, 
An'  turned  the  guns  of  his  genius,  an'  fired  'em  another  way. 
He  settled  himself  down  steady,  an'  is  quite  well  off  already ; 
An'  all  of  his  life  is  verses,  with  his  wife  the  first  an'  best, 
An'  ten  or  a  dozen  childr'n  to  constitute  the  rest. 


Coin    Home  To-Day.  71 


GOIN'  HOME  TO-DAY. 

MY  business  on  the  jury's  done — the  quibblin'  all  is  through — 
I've  watched  the  lawyers  right  and  left,  and  give  my  verdict  true; 
I  stuck  so  long  unto  my  chair,  I  thought  I  would  grow  in ; 
And  if  I  do  not  know  myself,  they'll  get  me  there  ag'in ; 
But  now  the  court's  adjourned  for  good,  and  I  have  got  my  pay; 
I'm  loose  at  last,  and  thank  the  Lord,  I'm  going  home  to-day. 

I've  somehow  felt  uneasy  like,  since  first  day  I  come  down ; 
It  is  an  awkward  game  to  play  the  gentleman  in  town ; 
And  this  'ere  Sunday  suit  of  mine  on  Sunday  rightly  sets; 
But  when  I  wear  the  stuff  a  week,  it  somehow  galls  and  frets. 
I'd  rather  wear  my  homespun  rig  of  pepper-salt  and  gray — 
I'll  have  it  on  in  half  a  jiff,  when  I  get  home  to-day. 

I  have  no  doubt  my  wife  looked  out,  as  well  as  any  one — 
As  well  as  any  woman  could — to  see  that  things  was  done: 
For  though  Melinda,  when  I'm  there,  won't  set  her  foot  outdoors, 
She's  very  careful,  when  I'm  gone,  to  tend  to  all  the  chores. 
But  nothing  prospers  half  so  well  when  I  go  off  to  stay, 
And  I  will  put  things  into  shape,  when  I  get  home  to-day. 

The  mornin'  that  I  come  away,  we  had  a  little  bout; 

I  coolly  took  my  hat  and  left,  before  the  show  was  out. 

For  what  I  said  was  naught  whereat  she  ought  to  take  offense; 

And  she  was  always  quick  at  words  and  ready  to  commence. 

But  then  she's  first  one  to  give  up  when  she  has  had  her  say; 

And  she  will  meet  me  with  a  kiss,  when  I  go  home  to-day. 

My  little  boy — I'll  give  'em  leave  to  match  him,  if  they  can ; 
It's  fun  to  see  him  strut  about,  and  try  to  be  a  man ! 


72  Farm  Ballads. 

The  gamest,  cheeriest  little  chap,  you'd  ever  want  to  see! 
And  then  they  laugh,  because  I  think  the  child  resembles  me. 
The  little  rogue !  he  goes  for  me,  like  robbers  for  their  prey ; 
He'll  turn  my  pockets  inside  out,  when  I  get  home  to-day. 

My  little  girl — I  can't  contrive  how  it  should  happen  thus — 
That  God  could  pick  that  sweet  bouquet,  and  fling  it  down  to  us! 
My  wife,  she  says  that  han'some  face  will  some  day  make  a  stir; 
And  then  I  laugh,  because  she  thinks  the  child  resembles  her. 
She'll  meet  me  half-way  down  the  hill,  and  kiss  me,  any  way; 
And  light  my  heart  up  with  her  smiles,  when  I  go  home  to-day! 

If  there's  a  heaven  upon  the  earth,  a  fellow  knows  it  when 
He's  been  away  from  home  a  week,  and  then  gets  back  again. 
If  there's  a  heaven  above  the  earth,  there  often,  I'll  be  bound, 
Some  homesick  fellow  meets  his  folks,  and  hugs  'em  all  around. 
But  let  my  creed  be  right  or  wrong,  or  be  it  as  it  may, 
My  heaven  is  just  ahead  of  me — I'm  going  home  to-day. 


Out  o  the  Fire.  73 


[As  Told  in  1880.^ 

OUT  O'  THE  FIEE. 

YEAR  of  71,  children,  middle  of  the  fall, 

On  one  fearful  night,  children,  we  well-nigh  lost  our  all. 

True,  it  wa'n't  no  great  sum  we  had  to  lose  that  night, 

But  when  a  little's  all  you've  got,  it  comes  to  a  blessed  sight. 

I  was  a  mighty  worker,  in  them  'ere  difficult  days, 
For  work  is  a  good  investment,  and  almost  always  pays; 
But  when  ten  years'  hard  labor  went  smokin'  into  the  air, 
I  doubted  all  o'  the  maxims,  an'  felt  that  it  wasn't  fair. 

Up  from  the  East  we  had  traveled,  with  all  of  our  household  wares, 
Where  we  had  long  been  workin'  a  piece  of  land  on  shares; 
But  how  a  fellow's  to  prosper  without  the  rise  of  the  land, 
For  just  two-thirds  of  nothin',  I  never  could  understand. 

Up  from  the  East  we  had  traveled,  me  and  my  folks  alone, 
And  quick  we  went  to  workin'  a  piece  of  land  of  our  own ; 
Small  was  our  backwoods  quarters,  and  things  looked  mighty  cheap; 
But  every  thing  we  put  in  there,  we  put  in  there  to  keep. 

So,  with  workin'  and  savin',  we  managed  to  get  along; 
Managed  to  make  a  livin',  and  feel  consid'able  strong; 
And  things  went  smooth  and  happy,  an'  fair  as  the  average  run, 
Till  every  thing  went  back  on  me,  in  the  fall  of  71. 

First  thing  bothered  and  worried  me,  was  'long  o'  my  daughter  Kate 

Rather  a  han'some  cre'tur',  and  folks  all  liked  her  gait. 

Not  so  nice  as  them  sham  ones  in  yeller-covered  books; 

But  still  there  wa'n't  much  discount  on  Katberine's  ways  an'  looks. 


74  Farm  Ballads. 

And  Katherine's  smile  was  pleasant,  and  Katherine's  temper  good, 
And  how  she  come  to  like  Tom  Smith,  I  never  understood; 
For  she  was  a  mornin'-glory,  as  fair  as  you  ever  see, 
And  Tom  was  a  shag-bark  hickory,  as  green  as  green  could  be. 

"Like  takes  to  like,"  is  a  proverb  that's  nothin'  more  than  trash; 
And  many  a  time  I've  seen  it  all  pulverized  to  smash. 
For  folks  in  no  way  sim'lar,  I've  noticed  ag'in  and  ag'in, 
Will  often  take  to  each  other,  and  stick  together  like  sin. 

Next  thing  bothered  and  worried  me,  was  'long  of  a  terrible  drouth ; 
And  me  an'  all  o'  my  neighbors  was  some'at  down  in  the  mouth. 
And  week  after  week  the  rain  held  off,  and  things  all  pined  an'  dried. 
And  we  drove  the  cattle  miles  to  drink,  and  many  of  'em  died. 

And  day  after  day  went  by  us,  so  han'some  and  so  bright, 

And  never  a  drop  of  water  came  near  us,  day  or  night; 

And  what  with  the  neighbors'  grumblin',  and  what  with  my  daily  loss. 

I  must  own  that  somehow  or  other  I  was  gettin'  mighty  cross. 

And  on  one  Sunday  evenin'  I  was  comin'  down  the  lane 

From  meetin',  where  our  preacher  had  stuck  and  hung  for  rain, 

And  various  slants  on  heaven  kept  workin'  in  my  mind, 

And  the  smoke  from  Sanders'  fallow  was  makin'  me  almost  blind; 

I  opened  the  door  kind  o'  sudden,  an'  there  my  Katherine  sat, 

As  cozy  as  any  kitten  along  with  a  friendly  cat; 

An'  Tom  was  dreadful  near  her — his  arm  on  the  back  of  her  chair — - 

And  lookin'  as  happy  and  cheerful  as  if  there  was  rain  to  spare. 

"Get  out  of  this  house  in  a  minute!"  I  cried,  with  all  my  might: 
"Get  out,  while  I'm  a-talkin'!" — Tom's  eyes  showed  a  bit  of  fight; 
But  he  rose  up,  stiff  and  surly,  and  made  me  a  civil  bow, 
And  mogged  along  to  the  door-way,  with  never  a  word  of  row. 

And  I  snapped  up  my  wife  quite  surly  when  she  asked  me  what  I'd  said, 
And  I  scolded  Kate  for  crying  and  sent  her  up  stairs  to  bed; 
And  then  I  laid  down,  for  the  purpose  of  gettin'  a  little  sleep, 
An7  the  wind  outside  was  a-howlin',  and  puttin*  it  in  to  keep. 


Out  o1  the  Fire.  75 

'Twas  half-past  three  next  mornin',  or  maybe  'twas  nearer  four — 
The  neighbors  they  came  a-yellin'  and  poundin'  at  my  door; 
"Get  up!  get  up!"  they  shouted:   "get  up!  there's  danger  near/ 
The  woods  are  all  a-burnin'!  the  wind  is  blowin'  it  here!" 

If  ever  it  happens,  children,  that  you  get  catched,  some  time, 
With  fire  a-blowin'  toward  you,  as  fast  as  fire  can  climb, 
You'll  get  up  and  get  in  a  hurry,  as  fast  as  you  can  budge-, 
It's  a  lively  season  of  the  year,  or  else  I  ain't  no  judge! 

Out  o'  the  dear  old  cabin  we  tumbled  fast  as  we  could — 
Smashed  two-thirds  of  our  dishes,  and  saved  some  four-foot  wood  ; 
With  smoke  a-settlin'  round  us  and  gettiri'  into  our  eyes, 
And  fire  a-roarin'  an'  roarin'  an'  drowndin'  all  of  our  cries. 

And  just  as  the  roof  was  smokin',  and  we  hadn't  long  to  wait, 

I  says  to  my  wife,  "Now  get  out,  and  hustle,  you  and  Katef; 

And  just  as  the  roof  was  fallin',  my  wife  she  come  to  me, 

With  a  face  as  white  as  a  corpse's  face,  and  "Where  is  Kate?"  says  slie. 

And  the  neighbors  come  runnin'  to  me,  with  faces  black  as  the  ground, 
And  shouted,  "Where  is  Katherine?     She's  nowhere  to  be  found  I" 


An'  this  is  all  I  remember,  till  I  found  myself  next  day, 
A-lyin'  in  Sanders'  cabin,  a  mile  an'  a  half  away. 

If  ever  you  wake  up,  children,  with  somethin'  into  your  head, 
Concerni  n'  a  han'some  daughter,  that's  lyin'  still  an'  dead, 
All  scorched  into  coal-black  cinders—  perhaps  you  rnay  not  weep, 
But  I  rather  think  it'll  happen  you'll  wish  you'd  a-kept  asleep. 


And  all  I  could  say,  was  "Kath'rine,  oh  Kath'rine,  come  to 
And  all  I  could  think,  was  "Kath'rine!"  and  all  that  I  could  see, 
Was  Sanders  a-standin'  near  to  me,  his  finger  into  his  eye, 
And  my  wife  a-bendin'  over  me,  and  tellin'  me  not  to  cry; 


6  Farm  Ballads. 

When,  lo!  Tom  Smith  he  entered — his  face  lit  up  with  grins— 
And  Kate  a-hangin'  on  his  arm,  as  neat  as  a  row  of  pins! 
And  Tom  looked  glad,  but  sheepish;  and  said,  "Excuse  me,  Squire, 
But  I  'loped  with  Kate,  and  married  her  an  hour  before  the  fire." 

Well,  children,  I  was  shattered;  'twas  more  than  I  could  bear — 
And  I  up  and  went  for  Kate  an'  Tom,  and  hugged  'em  then  and  there 
And  since  that  time,  the  times  have  changed,  an'  now  they  ain't  so  bad; 
And — Katherine,  she's  your  mother  now,  and — Thomas  Smith's  your  dad 


The  New  Church  Organ.  77 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  ORGAN. 

THEY'VE  got  a  brand-new  organ,  Sue, 

For  all  their  fuss  and  search ; 
They've  done  just  as  they  said  they'd  do, 

And  fetched  it  into  church. 
They're  bound  the  critter  shall  be  seen, 

And  on  the  preacher's  right 
They've  hoisted  up  their  new  machine, 

In  every  body's  sight. 
They've  got  a  chorister  and  choir, 

Ag'in'  my  voice  and  vote; 
For  it  was  never  my  desire 

To  praise  the  Lord  by  note! 

I've  been  a  sister  good  an'  true 

For  five-an'-thirty  year; 
I've  .done  what  seemed  my  part  to  do, 

An'  prayed  my  duty  clear; 
I've  sung  the  hymns  both  slow  and  quick. 

Just  as  the  preacher  read, 
And  twice,  when  Deacon  Tubbs  was  sick, 

I  took  the  fork  an'  led  ! 
And  now,  their  bold,  new-fangled  ways 

Is  comin'  all  about; 
And  I,  right  in  my  latter  days, 

Am  fairly  crowded  out! 

To-day  the  preacher,  good  old  dear, 

With  tears  all  in  his  eyes, 
Read,  "  I  can  read  my  title  clear 

To  mansions  in  the  skies." 


78  Farm  Ballads. 

I  al'ays  liked  that  blessed  hymn— 

I  s'pose  I  al'ays  will ; 
It  somehow  gratifies  my  whim, 

In  good  old  Ortonville; 
But  when  that  choir  got  up  to  sing, 

I  couldn't  catch  a  word ; 
They  sung  the  most  dog-gondest  thing 

A  body  ever  heard ! 

Some  worldly  chaps  was  standin'  near; 

An'  when  I  see  them  grin, 
I  bid  farewell  to  every  fear, 

And  boldly  waded  in. 
I  thought  I'd  chase  their  tune  along, 

An'  tried  with  all  my  might ; 
But  though  my  voice  is  good  an'  strong, 

I  couldn't  steer  it  right; 
When  they  was  high,  then  I  was  low, 

An'  also  contrawise; 
An'  I  too  fast,  or  they  too  slow, 

To  "  mansions  in  the  skies." 

An'  after  every  verse,  you  know, 

They   play  a  little  tune; 
I  didn't  understand,  an'  so 

I  started  in  too  soon. 
I  pitched  it  pretty  middlin'  high, 

I  fetched  a  lusty  tone, 
But  oh,  alas !  I  found  that  I 

"Was  sin^in'  there  alone! 

£3 

They  laughed  a  little,  I  am  told ; 

But  I  had  done  my  best ; 
And  not  a  wave  of  trouble  rolled 

Across  my  peaceful  breast. 

And  Sister  Brown — I  could  but  look — • 
She  sits  right  front  of  me; 

She  never  was  no  singin'-book, 
An'  never  went  to  be; 


"AG'IN  MY  VOICE  AND  VOTE. 


The  New  Church  Organ.  81 

But  then  she  al'ays  tried  to  do 

The  best  she  could,  she  said ; 
She  understood  the  time  right  through, 

An'  kep'  it  with  her  head ; 
But  when  she  tried  this  mornin',  oh, 

I  had  to  laugh,  or  cough ! 
It  kep'  her  head  a-bobbin'  so, 

It  e'en  a'most  came  off! 

An'  Deacon  Tubbs — he  all  broke  down, 

As  one  might  well  suppose; 
He  took  one  look  at  Sister  Brown, 

And  meekly  scratched  his  nose. 
He  looked  his  hymn-book  through  and  through, 

And  laid  it  on  the  seat, 
And  then  a  pensive  sigh  he  drew, 

And  looked  completely  beat. 
An'  when  they  took  another  bout, 

He  didn't  even  rise ; 
But  drawed  his  red  bandanner  out, 

An'  wiped  his  weepin'  eyes. 

I've  been  a  sister,  good  an'  true, 

For  five-an'-thirty  year; 
I've  done  what  seemed  my  part  to  do, 

An'  prayed  my  duty  clear; 
But  Death  will  stop  my  voice,  I  know, 

For  he  is  on  my  track; 
And  some  day  I  to  church  will  go, 

And  never  more  come  back; 
And  when  the  folks  gets  up  to  sing — 

Whene'er  that  time  shall  be — 
I  do  not  want  no  patent  thing 

A-squealin'  over  me! 
6 


82  Farm  Ballads. 


THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS. 

THE  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctum,  his  countenance  furrowed  with  care, 

His  mind  at  the  bottom  of  business,  his  feet  at  the  top  of  a  chair, 

His  chair-arm  an  elbow  supporting,  his  right  hand  upholding  his  head, 

His  eyes  on  his  dusty  old  table,  with  different  documents  spread : 

There  were  thirty  long  pages  from  Howler,  with  underlined  capitals  topped, 

And  a  short  disquisition  from  Growler,  requesting  his  newspaper  stopped ; 

There  were  lyrics  from  Gusher,  the  poet,  concerning  sweet  flow'rets  and 

zephyrs, 

And  a  stray  gem  from  Plodder,  the  farmer,  describing  a  couple  of  heifers; 
There  were  billets  from  beautiful  maidens,  and  bills  from  a  grocer  or  two, 
And  his  best  leader  hitched  to  a  letter,  which  inquired  if  he  wrote  it,  or 

who? 
There  were  raptures  of  praises  from  writers  of  the  weakly  mellifluous 

school, 

And  one  of  his  rival's  last  papers,  informing  him  he  was  a  fool ; 
There  were  several  long  resolutions,  with  names  telling  whom  they  were 

_by, 
Canonizing  some  harmless  old  brother  who  had  done  nothing  worse  than 

to  die; 
There  were  traps  on  that  table  to  catch  him,  and  serpents  to  sting  and  to 

smite  him; 

There  were  gift  enterprises  to  sell  him,  and  bitters  attempting  to  bite  him ; 
There  were  long  staring  "ads"  from  the  city,  and  money  with  never  a  one, 
Which  added,  "Please  give  this  insertion,  and  send  in  your  bill  when 

you're  done;" 
There  were  letters  from  organizations  —  their  meetings,  their  wants,  and 

their  laws — 
Which  said,  "  Can  you  print  this  announcement  for  the  good  of  our  glori 

ous  cause?" 

There  were  tickets  inviting  his  presence  to  festivals,  parties,  and  shows, 
Wrapped  in  notes  with  "Please  give  us  a  notice"  demurely  slipped  in  at 

the  close; 


The  Editor's  Guests.  83 

In  short,  as  his  eye  took  the  table,  and  ran  o'er  its  ink-spattered  trash, 
There  was  nothing  it  did  not  encounter,  excepting  perhaps  it  was  cash. 

The  Editor  dreamily  pondered  on  several  ponderous  things. 

On  different  lines  of  action,  and  the  pulling  of  different  strings; 

Upon  some  equivocal  doings,  and  some  unequivocal  duns; 

On  how  few  of  his  numerous  patrons  were  quietly  prompt-paying  ones; 

On  friends  who  subscribed  "just  to  help  him,"  and  wordy  encouragement 

lent, 

And  had  given  him  plenty  of  counsel,  but  never  had  paid  him  a  cent; 
On  vinegar,  kind-hearted  people  were  feeding  him  every  hour, 
Who  saw  not  the  work  they  were  doing,  but  wondered  that  "printers  are 

sour:" 

On  several  intelligent  townsmen,  whose  kindness  was  so  without  stint 
That  they  kept  an  eye  out  on  his  business,  and  told  him  just  what  he 

should  print; 
On  men  who  had  rendered  him  favors,  and  never  pushed  forward  their 

claims, 

So  long  as  the  paper  was  crowded  with  "locals"  containing  their  names; 
On  various  other  small  matters,  sufficient  his  temper  to  roil, 
And  finely  contrived  to  be  making  the  blood  of  an  editor  boil ; 
And  so  one  may  see  that  his  feelings  could  hardly  be  said  to  be  smooth, 
And  he  needed  some  pleasant  occurrence  his  ruffled  emotions  to  soothe : 
He  had  it;  for  lo!  on  the  threshold,  a  slow  and  reliable  tread, 
And  a  farmer  invaded  the  sanctum,  and  these  are  the  words  that  he  said : 

" Good-mornin',  sir,  Mr.  Printer;  how  is  your  body  to-day? 
I'm  glad  you're  to  home ;  for  you  fellers  is  al'ays  a  runnin'  away. 
Your  paper  last  week  wa'n't  so  spicy  nor  sharp  as  the  one  week  before, 
But  I  s'pose  when  the  campaign  is  opened,  you'll  be  whoopin'  it  up  to  'em 

more. 

That  feller  that's  printin'  The  Smasher  is  goin'  for  you  perty  smart; 
And  our  folks  said  this  mornin'  at  breakfast,  they  thought  he  was  gettin 

the  start. 

But  I  hushed  'em  right  up  in  a  minute,  and  said  a  good  word  for  you; 
I  told  'em  I  b'lieved  you  was  tryin'  to  do  just  as  well  as  you  knew; 
And  I  told  'em  that  some  one  was  sayin',  and  whoever  'twas  it  is  so, 
That  you  can't  expect  much  of  no  one  man,  nor  blame  him  for  what  he 

don't  know. 


84  Farm  Ballads. 

But,  layin'  aside  pleasure  for  business,  I've  brought  you  my  little  boy  Jim  ; 
And  I  thought  I  would  see  if  you  couldn't  make  an  editor  onten  o'  him. 

"My  family  stock  is  increasing  while  other  folks'  seems  to  run  short. 
I've  got  a  right  smart  of  a  family — it's  one  of  the  old-fashioned  sort : 
There's  Ichabod,  Isaac,  and  Israel,  a-workin'  away  on  the  farm — 
They  do  'bout  as  much  as  one  good  boy,  and  make  things  go  off  like  a 

charm. 

There's  Moses  and  Aaron  are  sly  ones,  and  slip  like  a  couple  of  eels; 
But  they're  tol'able  steady  in  one  thing — they  al'ays  git  round  to  their 

meals. 

There's  Peter  is  busy  inventin'  (though  what  he  invents  I  can't  see), 
And  Joseph  is  studyin'  medicine — and  both  of  'em  boardin'  with  me. 
There's  Abram  and  Albert  is  married,  each  workin'  rny  farm  for  himself, 
And  Sam  smashed  his  nose  at  a  shootin',  and  so  he  is  laid  on  the  shelf. 
The  rest  of  the  boys  are  all  growin',  'cept  this  little  runt,  which  is  Jim, 
And  I  thought  that  perhaps  I'd  be  makin'  an  editor  outen  o'  him. 

"He  ain't  no  great  shakes  for  to  labor,  though  I've  labored  with  him  a 

good  deal, 
And  give  him  some  strappin'  good  arguments  I  know  he  couldn't  help  but 

to  feel ; 

But  he's  built  out  of  second-growth  timber,  and  nothin'  about  him  is  big 
Exceptin'  his  appetite  only,  and  there  he's  as  good  as  a  pig. 
I  keep  him  a-carryin'  luncheons,  and  fillin'  and  bringin'  the  jugs, 
And  take  him  among  the  per  tat  068,  and  set  him  to  pickin'  the  bugs; 
And  then  there  is  things  to  be  doin'  a-helpin'  the  women  indoors; 
There's  churnin'  and  washin'  of  dishes,  and  other  descriptions  of  chores; 
But  he  don't  take  to  nothin'  but  victuals,  and  he'll  never  be  much,  I'm 

afraid, 

So  I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  notion  to  larn  him  the  editor's  trade. 
His  body's  too  small  for  a  farmer,  his  judgment  is  rather  too  slim, 
But  I  thought  we  perhaps  could  be  makin'  an  editor  outen  o'  him! 

"It  ain't  much  to  get  up  a  paper — it  wouldn't  take  him  long  for  to  learn ; 
He  could  feed  the  machine,  I'm  thinkin',  with  a  good  strappin'  fellow  to  turn. 
And  things  that  was  once  hard  in  doin'  is  easy  enough  now  to  do ; 
Just  keep  your  eye  on  your  machinery,  and  crack  your  arrangements  right 
through. 


The  Editor's  Guests.  87 

I  used  for  to  wonder  at  readin',  and  where  it  was  got  up,  and  how ; 

But  'tis  most  of  it  made  by  machinery — I  can  see  it  all  plain  enough  now. 
And  poetry,  too,  is  constructed  by  machines  of  different  designs, 
Each  one  with  a  gauge  and  a  chopper  to  see  to  the  length  of  the  lines ; 
And  I  hear  a  New  York  clairvoyant  is  runnin'  one  sleeker  than  grease, 
And  a-rentiri  her  heaven-born  productions  at  a  couple  of  dollars  apiece; 
An'  since  the  whole  trade  has  growed  easy,  'twould  be  easy  enough,  I've 

a  whim, 
If  you  was  agreed,  to  be  makin'  an  editor  oaten  of  Jim !" 

The  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctum  and  looked  the  old  man  in  the  eye, 

Then  glanced  at  the  grinning  young  hopeful,  and  mournfully  made  his 

reply  : 

"Is  your  son  a  small  unbound  edition  of  Moses  and  Solomon  both? 
Can  he  compass  his  spirit  with  meekness,  and  strangle  a  natural  oath? 
Can  he  leave  all  his  wrongs  to  the  future,  and  carry  his  heart  in  his  cheek? 
Can  he  do  an  hour's  work  in  a  minute,  and  live  on  a  sixpence  a  week? 
Can  he  courteously  talk  to  an  equal,  and  browbeat  an  impudent  dunce? 
Can  he  keep  things  in  apple-pie  order,  and  do  half  a  dozen  at  once? 
Can  he  press  all  the  springs  of  knowledge,  with  quick  and  reliable  touch, 
And  be  sure  that  he  knows  how  much  to  know,  and  knows  how  to  not 

know  too  much  ? 
Does  he  know  how  to  spur  up  his  virtue,  and  put  a  check-rein  on  his 

pride? 

Can  he  carry  a  gentleman's  manners  within  a  rhinoceros'  hide? 
Can  he  know  all,  and  do  all,  and  be  all,  with  cheerfulness,  courage,  and 

vim  ? 
If  so,  we  perhaps  can  be  makin  an  editor  '  outen  of  him.'  " 

The  farmer  stood  curiously  listening,  while  wonder  his  visage  o'erspread ; 
And  he  said,  "Jim,  I  guess  we'll  be  goin';  he's  probably  out  of  his  head." 

But  lo!  on  the  rickety  stair-case,  another  reliable  tread, 

And  entered  another  old  farmer,  and  these  are  the  words  that  he  said: 

II  Good-morning,  sir,  Mr.  Editor,  how  is  the  folks  to-day  ? 

I  owe  you  for  next  year's  paper;  I  thought  I'd  come  in  and  pay. 

And  Jones  is  agoin'  to  take  it,  and  this  is  his  money  here; 

1  shut  down  on  lendin'  it  to  him,  and  coaxed  him  to  try  it  a  year. 


88  Farm  Ballads. 

And  here  is  a  few  little  items  that  happened  last  week  in  our  town : 
I  thought  they'd  look  good  for  the  paper,  and  so  I  just  jotted  'em  down. 
And  here  is  a  basket  of  cherries  my  wife  picked  expressly  for  you ; 
And  a  small  bunch  of  flowers  from  Jennie — she  thought  she  must  send 

somethin'  too. 

You're  doin'  the  politics  bully,  as  all  of  our  family  agree; 
Just  keep  your  old  goose-quill  a-floppin',  and  give  'em  a  good  one  for  me. 
And  now  you  are  chuck  full  of  business,  and  I  won't  be  takin'  your  time; 
I've  things  of  my  own  I  must  'tend  to  —  good-day,  sir,  I  b'lieve  I  will 

climb." 

The  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctum  and  brought  down  his  fist  with  a  thump : 
"God  bless  that  old  farmer,"  he  muttered,  "he's  a  regular  Editor's  trump." 

And  'tis  thus  with  our  noble  profession,  and  thus  it  will  ever  be,  still; 
There  are  some  who  appreciate  its  labors,  and  some  who  perhaps  never 

will. 

But  in  the  great  time  that  is  coming,  when  loudly  the  trumpet  shall  sound, 
And  they  who  have  labored  and  rested  shall  come  from  the  quivering 

ground; 

When  they  who  have  striven  and  suffered  to  teach  and  ennoble  the  race, 
Shall  march  at  the  front  of  the  column,  each  one  in  his  God-given  place, 
As  they  pass  through  the  gates  of  The  City  with  proud  and  victorious 

tread, 
The  editor,  printer,  and  "devil,"  will  travel  not  far  from  the  head. 


The  House  where   We  were  Wed.  89 


THE  HOUSE  WHERE  WE  WERE  WED. 

I'VE  been  to  the  old  farm-house,  good- wife, 

Where  you  and  I  were  wed ; 
Where  the  love  was  born  to  our  two  hearts 

That  now  lies  cold  and  dead. 
Where  a  long-kept  secret  to  you  I  told, 

In  the  yellow  beams  of  the  moon, 
And  we  forged  our  vows  out  of  love's  own  gold, 

To  be  broken  so  soon,  so  soon ! 

I  passed  through  all  the  old  rooms,  good-wife; 

I  wandered  on  and  on ; 
I  followed  the  steps  of  a  flitting  ghost, 

The  ghost  of  a  love  that  is  gone. 
And  he  led  me  out  to  the  arbor,  wife, 

Where  with  myrtles  I  twined  your  hair; 
And  he  seated  me  down  on  the  old  stone  step, 

And  left  me  musing  there. 

The  sun  went  down  as  it  used  to  do, 

And  sunk  in  the  sea  of  night; 
The  two  bright  stars  that  we  called  ours 

Came  slowly  unto  my  sight; 
But  the  one  that  was  mine  went  under  a  cloud — 

Went  under  a  cloud,  alone; 
And  a  tear  that  I  wouldn't  have  shed  for  the  world. 

Fell  down  on  the  old  gray  stone. 

But  there  be  words  can  ne'er  be  unsaid, 
And  deeds  can  ne'er  be  undone, 


go  Farm  Ballads. 

Except  perhaps  in  another  world, 
Where  life's  once  more  begun. 

And  maybe  some  time  in  the  time  to  come. 
When  a  few  more  years  are  sped, 

We'll  love  again  as  we  used  to  love, 
In  the  house  where  we  were  wed. 


The   Mothers   Return.  gi 


THE  MOTHER'S  RETURN. 

THE  white-winged  Winter  storm  swept  swiftly  past, 
Or  paused  to  hover  o'er  the  farm-house  old, 
And  shed  its  cold,  white  plumage  on  the  roof, 
Thatching  it  thicker  every  icy  hour. 
A  million  snow-flakes  struggled  with  the  wind, 
Careered,  and  dashed,  and  fell,  and  rose  again, 
As  striving,  each,  to  live  its  longest  time, 
Ere  vanishing  to  an  inglorious  whole — 
Lost — nevermore  a  snow-flake. 

Every  thing 

Wore,  on  that  day,  the  frost-fringed  badge  of  Death. 
The  clouds  were  palls,  and  every  drift  a  shroud  ; 
The  apple-trees  were  singing  funeral  hymns, 
The  leafless  maples  listening  to  the  dirge ; 
And  on  yon  hill  the  wind-stripped  forest-trees 
Arose  like  graves  of  skeletons  upright. 

But  not  content,  to-day,  with  out-door  rule, 
Death  through  the  cottage-door  had  made  his,  way 
(And  who  so  laughs  to  scorn  the  bolts  and  walls?), 
Crouched  his  chill  form  before  the  kitchen  fire, 
And  smiled  to  see  his  glance  put  out  the  blaze. 

She  lay — the  mother  of  a  helpless  flock- 
Unheeding  all  the  childish  tears  of  grief, 
That  else  had  wasted  not  a  single  note, 
Without  her  loving  and  consoling  kiss. 
The  children  wept  hot,  scalding,  bitter  tears, 
Or  tiptoed  drearily  from  room  to  room, 


92 


Farm   Ballads. 

As  if  in  search  of  that  bright  soul,  which  once 
Had  lighted  all  the  house  with  love  and  peace ; 
Or  glanced,  with  eyes  half  curious  and  half  sad, 
At  the  pale  father,  who,  stunned,  bent,  and  crushed 
By  this  swift  blow,  was  rallying  now  his  strength 
To  bear  the  grief. 

Ah !  many  friends  we  love 

May  climb  the  gilded  mountains  of  the  clouds, 
And  find  the  regions  of  the  farther  sky, 
Ere  we  can  leave  this  land  of  fleshly  ghosts, 
And  join  the  kingdom  of  realities. 
The  earth  must  beat  on  many  a  coffin-lid, 
Fit  time  to  strains  of  sorrow  in  our  hearts, 
For  those  above  whose  lifeless  breast  it  falls. 
Life's  turnpike  scowls  with  toll-gates  of  the  graves  ! 
And  yet,  a  hundred  losses  come  and  go, 
Each  in  its  turn  may  bend  us  to  the  earth, 
And,  while  we  do  but  mourn  the  latest  ill, 
Some  crushing  sorrow  may  outweigh  them  all ! 

What  picture  can  be  drearier  to  the  heart 

Than  a  loved  sister,  lying  in  her  shroud  ? 

To  feel  no  more  the  clinging  confidence 

That  rested  on  you  from  her  clear,  pure  eyes ; 

To  know  that  Death,  a  suitor  undesired, 

Has  proudly  drawn  that  lingering  hand  from  yours, 

And  led  her  silently  away  with  him, 

Into  the  shadows  of  his  own  dark  land; 

To  feel  so  many  flowers  of  memory  nipped 

By  the  same  frost  that  rests  upon  her  brow; 

To  think  of  all  the  past — the  darling  past — • 

With  half-neglected  sweets,  forever  gone; 

Ah,  yes ! — a  sister's  loss  is  hard  to  bear ; 

But  there  are  other  griefs. 

A  brother's  grave 

Rests  ever  'neath  the  head-stone  of  despair. 
There  is  no  sound  so  mournful  as  the  hush 


The   Mothers   Return. 

That  lingers  o'er  a  sturdy  death-stilled  heart ; 

]STo  power  that  so  the  tender  soul  can  move 

As  the  inaction  of  a  brawny  arm. 

For  Memory  lingers  with  us  round  that  grave, 

Awarding  and  avenging  all  the  past : 

Pouring  a  balm  for  each  good  act  and  word, 

And  dealing  thrusts  for  all  that  was  unkind; 

While  Pity  hovers  all  about  the  scene, 

And  weeps  that  one  so  strong  should  helpless  lie. 

Ah,  yes !  a  brother's  loss  is  hard  to  bear ! 

And  yet,  there  are  more  griefs. 

A  father's  voice 

May  hush  its  words  of  counsel  and  reproof, 
Its  blessings,  and  its  hopeful  words  of  cheer, 
And  sink  in  Silence's  unfathomed  sea. 
A  father's  coffin  holds  a  treasure  lost; 
A  father's  love  is  wondrous  strong  and  true. 
Even  though  not  unmixed  with  selfish  pride ; 
A  father's  loss  is  heavy  to  be  borne ; 
But  there  are  drearier,  heavier  griefs. 

The  pang — 

The  cruel  pang,  the  never-ceasing  pang — 
That  turns  the  sweets  of  life  to  bitterness, 
All  zephyrs  unto  tempests,  and  each  breeze 
To  organ  tones  of  woe;  the  hopeless  pang 
That  pits  rebellious  life  against  itself, 
When  the  strong  cord,  the  golden,  love-charged  cord, 
That  holds  a  wife  and  mother  to  her  own, 
Severs,  and  falls  in  ruins  at  our  feet, 
And  mocks  us  with  its  brightness  'mid  the  dust ! 
There  is  no  loss,  except  the  loss  of  heaven, 
Like  that  which  fills  a  wife  and  mother's  shroud; 
There  is  no  love,  except  the  love  of  God, 
Like  that  which  fills  a  wife  arid  mother's  heart. 

It  is  a  fire  that  never  can  be  quenched, 
Though  base  ingratitude  be  on  it  poured; 


93 


94 


Farm   Ballads. 

Though  wickedness  may  wrap  and  clasp  it  'round. 

E'en  he  who  flees  the  answer  to  its  prayers, 

Still  sees,  along  his  crooked,  thorny  path, 

The  sweet  refulgence  of  its  constant  light. 

And  though  he  creep  through  vilest  caves  of  sin, 

And  crouch,  perhaps,  with  bleared  and  bloodshot  eyes, 

Under  the  hangman's  rope — a  mother's  lips 

Will  kiss  him  in  his  last  bed  of  disgrace, 

And  love  him  e'en  for  what  she  hoped  of  him. 

While  yet  reposed  the  mother  of  that  flock, 

In  the  white  drapery  of  her  burial  robes, 

The  door  swung  swiftly  on  its  creaking  hinge, 

And,  heeding  not  the  startled,  wondering  look 

Of  the  sad  father,  as  he  raised  his  eyes, 

And  sighed  for  sorrow  of  the  hopeless  past, 

A  young  and  fragile  form  crept  softly  in, 

With  locks  dishevelled,  with  tear-fevered  eyes, 

And  face  as  white  as  she  had  been  the  dead. 

Upon  her  brow  were  drawn  long  lines  of  care, 

And  marks  that  told  of  waywardness  and  vice. 

Scarce  heeding  them  whose  wondering  lips  arose, 

She  hastened  to  the  sleeper;  and  with  tears 

Of  penitence,  that  well  might  pay  the  debt 

That  sin  and  disobedience  had  run  up — 

If  tears  could  pay  such  debts — she  clasped  the  form 

Unto  her  breast,  and  kissed  the  unanswering  lips, 

And  thus  she  spoke : 

"  O  mother,  mother  lost ! 

Thou  'rt  here,  yet  gone  so  far !     I  still  can  see 
The  gentle  smile  that  lingers  on  thy  face, 
But  can  not  hear  thy  kind,  consoling  voice ! 
My  impure  lips  may  kiss  thy  sacred  cheek, 
Yet  feel  no  kindly  pressure  back  again ! 
My  words  of  grief  and  penitence  may  fall, 
With  pardon  humbly  asked,  upon  thine  ear, 
And  yet  thou  canst  not  hear  them;  and  no  word 
Of  blest  forgiveness  canst  thou  answer  back ! 


The  Mothers  Return.  95 

"O  mother,  wronged,  wronged,  foully,  bitterly! 

Crushed  by  ingratitude,  and  all  the  shame 

That  one  like  me  could  heap  upon  thy  pride ! 

Spurned,  when  thou  followedst  me,  e'en  in  my  guilt, 

Down  to  the  darkest  depths  of  wayward  sin, 

And  begged,  with  tears,  that  I  would  come  with  thee, 

And  tread  the  paths  of  virtue  once  again  ! 

"  Give  to  me  but  one  word ;   one  little  word 
Of  pardon,  for  the  dark  and  shameful  past ; 
One  short,  one  fleeting  word ;   nay,  even  a  breath ; 
Or  lend  to  me  a  sign;   a  smile;   a  glance; 
That  I  may  feel  forgiveness  for  my  sin ! 
I  can  not  see  thee  laid  into  thy  grave, 
Without  one  word  of  pardon  and  of  love ! 
And  if,  O  God!  thou  wilt  but  let  her  come, 
But  just  to  speak  one  single  word  to  me, 
I  vow  to  Thee  my  lips  shall  sing  Thy  praise, 
My  heart  shall  beat  accordance  with  Thy  word. 
And  truth  and  virtue  shall  adorn  my  life, 
Until  this  weary  heart  may  cease  to  beat." 

As  the  frail  plantlet,  bursting  from  its  seed, 

Casts  off  the  earth  that  rests  upon  its  head, 

And  springs  to  new-made  beauty  —  so  this  prayer. 

Cleaving  the  guilt  and  shame  that  o'er  it  hung, 

Bloomed  fair  and  pure  before  the  All-seeing  eye. 

And  it  was  answered.     From  her  deathly  trance 

The  mother  woke ;  and,  lifting  up  her  head, 

Said,  "Where  am  I?  —  a  deep,  long  sleep  was  mine. 

I  dreamed  that  in  the  fields  of  Paradise, 

A  shepherdess,  I  watched  and  fed  a  flock ; 

Till  the  Almighty  came  to  me,  and  said, 

'Matron,  return  unto  thy  flock  below, 

For  they  are  chilled  by  the  cold,  wintry  storm. 

And  one,  which  long  time  went  from  thee  astray, 

Worn,  soiled,  but  penitent,  to-day  returns. 

She  shall  henceforth  be  led  by  Heaven's  pure  light, 

And  thou  shalt  take  her,  chastened,  to  thine  arms.' >: 


g6  Farm  Ballads. 


HOW  JAMIE  CAME  HOME, 

COME,  Mother,  set  the  kettle  on, 

An'  put  the  ham  an'  eggs  to  fry  ! 
Something  to  eat,  old-fashioned-neat — 

To  please  our  Jamie's  mouth  and  eye ! 
For  he's  our  only  son,  you  know; 
The  rest  ha'  perished,  long  ago ! 
And  when  he  comes  to  us  to-night, 
His  glad,  blue  eyes  will  sparkle  bright, 
His  old,  sweet  smile  will  play  right  free, 
His  boyhood  home  once  more  to  see. 

I  say  for't!  'twas  a  lucky  thing 

That  Jamie  was  not  maimed  or  killed! 
So  many  years,  with  pain  an'  tears, 

With  long  an'  bloody  battles  filled ! 
And  many  a  night-time,  dark  an'  drear, 
We've  lain  within  our  cottage  here, 
And  while  the  cold  storm  came  an'  went 
We've  thought  of  Jamie,  in  his  tent ; 
And  offered  many  a  silent  prayer, 
That  God  would  keep  him  in  his  care. 

I  say  for't !  ^twas  a  lucky  thing 

That  Jamie  was  not  maimed  or  killed! 
So  many  years,  with  hopes  an'  fears, 

With  dark,  death-laden  tidings  filled ! 
And  many  a  morning,  full  o'  fear, 
We've  knelt  around  our  fireside  here, 
And  while  we've  thought  of  bleeding  ones, 
Of  flashing  steel  and  blazing  guns, 


How  Jamie  Came  Home.  97 

We've  prayed  for  him  we  sent  out  there, 
Addressed  in  God's  paternal  care. 

Nay,  Ada,  daughter,  come  away; 

Touch  not  a  thing  upon  that  shelf ! 
Mother,  she  knows  where  each  dish  goesi 

Mother  shall  lay  them  all  herself! 
There's  nothing,  to  the  wanderer's  taste, 
Like  food  where  mother's  hand  is  traced; 
There's  nothing,  to  the  wanderer's  look, 
Like  food  her  cunning  hand  can  cook. 
Though  good  the  sister's  heart  and  will, 
The  mother's  love  is  better  still. 

Hark  !  there's  his  step  ! — he's  coming  now ! 

I  thought — yes,  there's  the  sound  once  more ! 
Now  with  glad  feet  and  smiles,  we'll  greet 

The  truant,  at  our  open  door! 
****** 

It  is  a  heavy  step  and  tone; 

And  more — the  lad  is  not  alone ! 

Perhaps  the  company  extends 

To  some  of  his  old  comrade-friends; 

And  who  they  be,  or  whence  they  came, 

They  shall  be  greeted  all  the  same. 


What  bear  ye  on  your  shoulders,  men  ? 

Is  it  my  Jamie,  stark  and  dead  ? 
What  did  you  say  ?  .  .  .  Once  more,  I  pray. 

I  did  not  gather  what  you  said. 
What,  drunk? — tell  not  that  lie  to  me! 
What,  drunk?     O  God,  it  can  not  be! 
It  must  not  be  my  Jamie  dear, 

Lying  in  beast-like  slumber  here ! 
#***#< 

It  is— it  is — as  you  have  said. 
Men,  lay  him  on  yon  waiting  bed. 

7 


98  Farm  Ballads, 

'Tis  Jamie — yes — a  bearded  man, 

But  bearing  yet  some  boyhood's  trace; 

Stained  with  the  ways  of  reckless  days — 
Flushed  with  night-revels — is  his  face; 

Red  with  the  fruits  of  reckless  years; 

Robbed  of  each  look  that  e'er  endears; 

Robbed  of  each  mark  that  e'er  might  make 

Us  cherish  him  for  his  own  sake, 

Except  the  heart-distressing  one, 

That  Jamie  is  our  only  son  1 

0  Mother,  take  the  kettle  off, 

And  put  the  ham  and  eggs  away! 
What  was  my  crime,  and  when  the  time, 

That  I  should  live  to  see  this  day  I 
For  all  the  sighs  I  ever  drew, 
And  all  the  tears  I  ever  knew, 
And  all  the  bitter  tears  I  shed 
Above  our  children  that  are  dead, 
All  care  that  ever  creased  my  brow, 
Are  nought  to  what  comes  o'er  me  now  I 

1  would  to  God  that  when  the  three 
We  lost  were  hidden  from  our  view, 

Jamie  had  died,  and  by  their  side 

Had  lain,  all  pure  and  stainless,  too ! 
I  would  the  sky  might  bend  above 
The  grave  of  him  we  joyed  to  love, 
Rather  than  that  he  living  came 
To  bring  this  home  disgrace  and  shame ! 
But,  Mother — Ada — come  this  way, 
And  let  us  humbly  kneel  and  pray. 


WHAT    WAS    MY    CRIME,  AND    WHEN   THE    TIME, 
THAT   I    SHOULD   LIVE   TO    SEE   THIS   DAY  ?" 


The  Clang  of  the  Yankee  Reaper.  101 


THE  CLANG  OF  THE  YANKEE  REAPER. 

THE  clang  of  the  Yankee  reaper, 

On  Salisbury  Plain  1 
A  music  sweeter — deeper — 

Than  many  a  nobler  strain. 

Across  that  British  prairie 
I  tramped,  one  summer  day; 

The  breeze  was  free  and  merry — 
White  lamb-clouds  were  at  play; 

With  fleecy  wealth  was  teeming 
The  shepherd's  paddock  fold ; 

And  ripened  grain  stood  gleaming 
Like  lakes  of  melted  gold ; 

Far  off  were  grimly  looming 

Stonehenge's  mystery-piles ; 
Beneath  the  feet  were  blooming 

A  floweret's  modest  smiles; 

And  nature's  wondrous  being 
The  gladdened  eye  possessed; 

But  what  is  cheery  of  seeing, 
When  the  heart  is  ill  at  rest? 

For  deep  waves  of  emotion 

Had  all  that  day  prevailed, 
And  over  the  cold  blue  ocean 

Mv  sad  heart  swiftly  sailed. 
7* 


IO2  Farm  Ballads. 

Across  the  cold  sea  sailing, 
My  dreary  memory  roved ; 

Sweet  old-time  scenes  unveiling, 
With  true  friends,  fondly  loved ; 

And  brought  back  many  a  feeling 
That  long  had  dwelt  apart, 

Till  through  my  life  came  stealing 
The  pangs  of  a  homesick  heart 

And  never  the  sea's  wide  reaches 
Seemed  half  the  fathoms  o'er, 

Or  the  West-land's  shining  beaches 
So  far  away  before. 

When,  richer,  sweeter,  deeper 
Than  a  distant  music  strain, 

Came  the  clang  of  the  Yankee  reaper 
On  Salisbury  Plain ! 

As  when  the  heart  is  weeping 
'Neath  slowly  crushing  hours, 

The  fragrance  soft  comes  creeping 
Of  memory-hallowed  flowers; 

As  when,  with  sudden  gleaming, 
Above  some  foreign  dome, 

Against  the  sky  goes  streaming 
The  flag  of  our  nation-home; 

So  from  my  heart  the  sadness 
In  silence  gently  stole, 

And  rich  new  strains  of  gladness 
Came  thrilling  through  my  soul. 


I 


"THE  CLANG  OF  THE  YANKEE  REAPER, 
ON  SALISBURY  PLAIN  !" 


"  Why  should  they  Kill  my  Baby  ?" 


105 


"WHY  SHOULD  THEY  KILL  MY  BABY?" 

[The  aged  mother  of  the  late  President  Garfield  is  reported  to  have  exclaimed  as  above,  upon 
hearing  the  news  of  his  attempted  assassination.] 

WHY  should  they  kill  my  baby  ? — for  he  seems  the  same  to  me 
As  when,  in  the   morning  twilight,  I  tossed  him  on  my  knee, 
And  sowed  for  him  hopes  to  blossom  when  he  should  become  a  man, 
And  dreamed  for  him  such  a  future  as  only  a  mother  can. 


I  looked  ahead  to  the  noon-time  with  proud  but  trembling  joy ; 
I  had  a  vision  of  splendor  for  my  sweet,  bright-eyed  boy; 
But  little  enough  I  fancied  that,  when  he  had  gained  renown, 
Base  Envy's  poisoned  bullet  would  suddenly  strike  him  down  ! 

Why  should  they  want  to  kill  him  ?     Because  he  had  cut  his  way 
Through  Poverty's  gloomy  woodland  out  into  the  open  day, 
And  sent  a  shout  of  good  cheer  to  those  who  were  yet  within, 
That  honor  is  born  of  striving,  and  honesty  yet  can  win  ? 


io6  Farm  Ballads. 

Or  was  it  because  from  boyhood  he  manfully  bared  his  breast 
To  fight  for  the  poor  and  lowly,  and  aid  the  sore  oppressed  ? 
Ah  me !  the  world  is  working  upon  a  treacherous  plan, 
When  he  who  has  struck  for  mankind  is  stricken  down  by  man ! 

Or  did  they  begrudge  his  mother  the  hand  he  reached  her  still, 
Ko  odds  how  high  he  clambered  up  Fortune's  glittering  hill? 
For  in  his  proudest  life-day  he  turned  from  the  honors  of  earth, 
And  came  and  tenderly  kissed  me — the  mother  who  gave  him  birth. 

Shame  on  the  wretch  who  struck  him,  and  prays  that  the  blow  may  kill ! 

And  pity  for  his  mother,  if  she  be  living  still ! 

May  God  in  mercy  aid  him  his  black  crime  to  atone, 

And  help  me  to  forgive  him — I  can  not  do  it  alone ! 


The  Old  Man  Meditates. 


107 


THE  OLD  MAN  MEDITATES. 


,  Maggie,  let  my  old-style  fancies  be  — 
I'm  sorry  that  you  interrupted  me  ! 
'Tis  sweet  to  press  a  pretty  hand  like  this, 
And  taste  the  flavor  of  a  grandchild's  kiss; 
I  love  to  draw  yon  to  me  tender-wise, 
And  look  off  at  my  boyhood  through  your  eyes 


NAY,   MAGGIE,  LET    MY    OLD-STYLE    FANCIES    BE. 


io8  Farm  Ballads. 

(For  they  are  telescopes  of  wondrous  view 

That  bring  me  back  a  girl  that  looked  like  you); 

Your  voice  is,  as  you  just  now  used  it  last, 

A  silver  key  that  takes  me  through  the  past ; 

And  now  you're  here,  you  girl-witch,  you  shall  stay, 

But  still  I'd  rather  you  had  kept  away. 

For  I've  been  sitting  here  an  hour,  I'll  own, 
Catching  some  thoughts  a  man  holds  best  alone; 
And  shadows  on  my  poor  old  soul  have  found 
That  might  feel  chilly  like,  to  folks  around. 
I've  seen  the  sun  go  sailing  out  of  sight, 
Far  from  the  gloomy,  shifting  shores  of  night, 
And  wondered  (though  perhaps  'twas  wicked)  why 
God  would  not  swing  those  gold  doors  of  the  sky, 
And  take  me  from  this  world,  that's  grown  so  strange, 
To  heaven,  where  maybe  fashions  do  not  change ; 
For  I  am  like  a  gnarled  and  withered  tree 
With  a  new  growth  of  forest  shading  me. 

The  world  keeps  newing  so ! — they  fashion  it 

So  old  men  find  no  place  wherein  to  fit. 

"  On  and  right  on  !"  leaps  hot  from  every  tongue ; 

"Live  while  you  live!"  and  "Go  it  while  you're  young!" 

An  average,,  moderate  life,  if  these  things  last, 

Will  be  among  the  lost  arts  of  the  past ; 

These  rushing  days  of  lightning  and  of  steam 

Push  everything  out  into  some  extreme. 

The  rich  grow  richer,  smarter  grow  the  smart; 

It's  harder  for  the  rest  to  get  a  start; 

And  Wholesale  grows  more  Wholesale  every  day, 

And  Retail  has  to  stand  back  out  the  way. 

It's  hard  to  tell,  'mid  all  Progression's  jumps, 

How  far  this  world  will  make  up  into  lumps. 

Farewell,  old  churn,  with  dasher  fringed  with  cream, 

These  times  when  cows  are  all  but  milked  by  steam; 

And  in  the  bustling  dairy  may  be  found 

Butter  by  tons,  instead  of  by  the  pound; 


The  Old  Man  Meditates. 

While  several  of  the  corner  groceries  keep 
Its  bogus  brother,  oleomargarine,  cheap ! 

Good-by,  old  country  mill  of  water-power: 

This  steam  one  does  your  week's  work  in  an  hour ! 

Adieu,  gas,  tallow,  kerosene,  and  whale : 

The  blue-eyed,  earth-born  lightning  makes  you  pale! 

You  sailing  craft,  make  wide  your  fluttering  crown, 

Lest  the  great  fire-fed  frigate  run  you  down ! 

Old-fashioned  politics,  cease  your  mild  strife, 

When  men  can  say  "  An  office  or  your  life !" 


109 


-4 

-.-fv*> 


NOW,   EVERY    OTHER   MILE    A    SIGN-BOARD    BARS. 


And  you,  small  rogues,  ere  you  so  guilty  feel 
Because  a  thousand  dollars  you  may  steal, 
Look  at  that  scamp  of  sanctimonious  style, 
Who  pilfers  millions  with  a  charming  smile ! 

Once  I  my  sorrel  nag  in  peace  could  drive, 

With  some  fair  chance  of  reaching  home  alive; 

Now,  every  other  mile  a  sign-board  bars, 

With  "Railroad  Crossing:   look  out  for  the  Cars." 

These  cars — they  carry  thousands  in  a  day, 

And  maybe  take  some  that  had  better  stay; 

While  often,  in  a  crash  of  wail  and  woe, 

They  take  folks  where  they  do  not  want  to  go ! 

And  I  have  heard  and  read  distressing  things 

Of  railroad  cliques,  monopolies,  and  rings : 


no 


Farm  Ballads, 

I've  tried  to  understand  their  "stock  reports," 

Their  "bulls"  and  "bears,"  their  curious  "longs"  and  "shorts;' 

Wherefrom  the  most  that  I  can  calculate 

Is,  if  to  fall  among  them  is  your  fate, 


"MY    WHETSTONE   ANP    MY    SCYTHE  1 

Your  heart,  ere  many  months,  will  sing  the  song, 
"My  pocket's  short,  my  countenance  is  long." 
It  may  be  right,  the  way  those  fellows  do  it, 
But  old  men  can  not  fit  themselves  down  to  it! 

Once  all  my  worries  (and  a  plenty,  too) 
Were  kind  of  circumscribed  to  folks  I  knew; 


The  Old  Man  Meditates.  \  \  i 

But  now  the  telegraph  and  papers  try 

To  bring  this  whole  world  underneath  the  eye. 

And  my  old  fool  heart  into  sorrow  drive 

O'er  deaths  of  folks  I  didn't  know  were  alive. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  to  know 

That  news  can  sweep  across  the  country  so; 

But  it  gets  out  of  breath,  I  calculate, 

And  sometimes  fails  to  tell  the  story  straight ; 

And  talk  that's  false,  or  frivolous,  or  too  small, 

The  slower  it  goes,  the  better  for  us  all. 

It's  smart,  this  flashing  news  from  shore  to  shore, 

But  old  men  value  peace  a  good  deal  more. 

In  the  hay  field  how  gallant  and  how  blithe 

Sang  their  loud  song  my  whetstone  and  my  scythe ! 

How  in  the  dewy  morning  used  to  pass 

My  bright  blade's  whisper  through  the  shuddering  grass! 

And  gayly  in  the  harvest  fields  of  old 

My  sickle  gathered  God's  most  precious  gold. 

But  now  the  patent  reaper  rattles  there, 

The  men  it  drove  out  gone — the  Lord  knows  where. 

It  brags  and  rattles  through  the  field  in  haste, 

Gathers  the  harvest — what  it  does  not  waste — • 

And  leaves  not  much  for  poor  old  men  like  me, 

Except  to  sit  upon  the  fence  and  see. 

God  bade  man  till  the  soil;   but  it  would  seem 

He's  shirked  it  off  on  horses,  steel,  and  steam. 

It's  well — if  he  don't  use  the  extra  time 

In  wicked  mischief  or  mischievous  crime. 

This  giving  Work  the  go-by  may  be  smart, 

But,  I  have  noticed,  doesn't  improve  the  heart. 

I  know  I'm  'way  behind  these  rushing  days, 

But  still  I  like  the  good  old  working  ways. 

Your  grandam  made  her  own  trim  wedding  dress, 
And  fitted  it,  and  wove  it  too,  I  guess ; 
There  never,  Maggie,  was  a  witching  elf 
That  went  past  her — not  even  you  yourself. 


112 


Farm  Ballads. 


"YOUR   GRANDAM    MADE    HER    OWN    TRIM   WEDDING   DRESS. 

You  have  her  gentle  eyes,  her  voice,  her  touch — • 
But,  sakes !   you  cost  a  hundred  times  as  much ! 
They've  had  to  flute,  and  flounce,  and  trick  you  out, 
And  squeeze,  and  pull,  and  jerk  you  all  about, 
Till  it's  a  question  rather  hard  to  meet, 
How  you  came  through  it  all  so  good  and  sweet! 

You  wouldn't  have  had  to  bother  in  that  way 
If  some  cute  Yankee  had  not,  one  fine  day, 


The  Old  Man  Meditates.  1 1 3 

Placed,  with  eyes  made  by  money-hunger  keen, 
A  sewing  circle  in  one  small  machine, 
Which  hungers  after  cloth  and  thread  ;   and  so 
Dress  often  takes  up  some  new  furbelow. 
My  old-style  pocket  with  gaunt  pain  it  fills; 
But  I  won't  groan — I  do  not  pay  the  bills ! 

Church  matters,  maybe,  ain't  for  me  to  name, 

For  true  religion  always  keeps  the  same ; 

And  they  may  higgle,  contradict,  and  doubt, 

And  turn  the  good  old  Bible  wrong  side  out; 

But  they  can't  change,  however  hard  they  try, 

Arrangements  on  the  top  side  of  the  sky. 

I  like  to  read  the  new  way  that  'tis  told — 

It  often  helps  me  understand  the  old ; 

But  when  my  daily  prayers  I  come  to  say, 

I  think  I'll  use  the  straight,  old-fashioned  way. 

HE  taught  that  grand  old  prayer  to  us,  you  know— 

'Twas  more  than  eighteen  hundred  years  ago; 

And  if  its  words  were  any  way  amiss, 

He'd  probably  have  told  us  long  ere  this. 

Leastways,  He's  heard  me  so  far  in  that  style, 

And  I'll  hang  to  it  yet  a  little  while. 

Ah  me !   this  matter's  just  like  all  the  rest : 

Old  ways  for  old  men  mostly  are  the  best. 

But  whatsoever  changes  I  can  name, 

One  institution  always  keeps  the  same, 

And  soon  or  late  enacts  its  noble  part, 

And  that's  the  grand  and  glorious  human  heart. 

Perhaps  it  lurks  in  wretchedness  and  slime — 

Is  dragged  by  Passion  through  the  waves  of  crime; 

Or  Indolence  around  its  couch  may  creep, 

And  lull  it  for  a  season  into  sleep ; 

Or  Selfishness  may  ravage  all  about, 

Eat  its  supplies  and  well-nigh  starve  it  out; 

But  when  it  can  the  body's  grossness  shed, 

The  god-like  human  heart  comes  out  ahead ! 


1 1 4  Farm  Ballads. 

No,  Maggie,  do  not  go  away  from  me, 

But  turn  your  eyes  round  here  where  I  can  see ; 

They  show  me  that  there's  much  that  earth  can  give 

Designed  to  coax  an  old  man  yet  to  live ; 

The  tender,  true  heart  you  have  always  shown 

In  brightening  up  my  dim  life  with  your  own, 


THAT  YOUNG  FELLOW  COMING  DOWN  THE  LANE. 


The  way  you've  treated  me — with  as  much  grace 
As  if  I  owned  three-quarters  of  this  place, 
While  you  and  all  your  folks  are  well  aware 
My  purse  is  full  of  poverty  to  spare — 
Show,  in  the  sandy  shifting  of  life's  ways, 
That  Love's  first  fashion  still  among  us  stays ; 
And  that  young  fellow  coming  down  the  lane 
Will  help  to  make  my  meaning  doubly  plain. 


OTHER   POEMS. 


OTHER   POEMS. 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 

UNDERNEATH  an  apple-tree 

Sat  a  maiden  and  her  lover; 
And  the  thoughts  within  her  he 

Yearned,  in  silence,  to  discover. 
Round  them  danced  the  sunbeams  bright, 

Green  the  grass-lawn  stretched  before  them; 
While  the  apple-blossoms  white 

Hung  in  rich  profusion  o'er  them. 

Naught  within  her  eyes  he  read 

That  would  tell  her  mind  unto  him ; 
Though  their  light,  he  after  said, 

Quivered  swiftly  through  and  through  him; 
Till  at  last  his  heart  burst  free 

From  the  prayer  with  which  'twas  laden, 
And  lie  said,  "When  wilt  thou  be 

Mine  for  evermore,  fair  maiden  ?" 

;i  When,"  said  she,  "  the  breeze  of  May 

With  white  flakes  our  heads  shall  cover, 
I  will  be  thy  brideling  gay — • 

Thou  shalt  be  my  husband-lover." 
"  How,"  said  he,  in  sorrow  bowed, 

"  Can  I  hope  such  hopeful  weather  ? 
Breeze  of  May  and  Winter's  cloud 

Do  not  often  fly  together." 


1 8  Other  Poems. 

Quickly  as  the  words  he  said, 

From  the  west  a  wind  came  sighing, 
And  on  each  uncovered  head 

Sent  the  apple-blossoms  flying; 
" '  Flakes  of  white !'  thou'rt  mine,"  said  he, 

"  Sooner  than  thy  wish  or  knowing !" 
"Nay,  I  heard  the  breeze,"  quoth  she. 

"When  in  yonder  forest  blowing." 


Apples  Growing: 


APPLES  GROWING. 

UNDERNEATH  an  apple-tree 

Sat  a  dame  of  comely  seeming, 
With  her  work  upon  her  knee, 

And  her  great  eyes  idly  dreaming. 
O'er  the  harvest-acres  bright, 

Came  her  husband's  din  of  reaping; 
Near  to  her,  an  infant  wight 

Through  the  tangled  grass  was  creeping. 

On  the  branches  long  and  high, 

And  the  great  green  apples  growing, 
Rested  she  her  wandering  eye, 

With  a  retrospective  knowing. 
"This,"  she  said,  "the  shelter  is, 

Where,  when  gay  and  raven-headed, 
I  consented  to  be  his, 

And  our  willing  hearts  were  wedded. 

"Laughing  words  and  peals  of  mirth, 

Long  are  changed  to  grave  endeavor; 
Sorrow's  winds  have  swept  to  earth 

Many  a  blossomed  hope  forever. 
Thunder-heads  have  hovered  o'er — 

Storms  my  path  have  chilled  and  shaded ; 
Of  the  bloom  my  gay  youth  bore, 

Some  has  fruited — more  has  faded." 

Quickly,  and  amid  her  sighs, 

Through  the  grass  her  baby  wrestled, 


I2O  Other  Poems. 

Smiled  on  her  its  father's  eyes, 
And  unto  her  bosom  nestled. 

And  with  sudden,  joyous  glee, 

Half  the  wife's  and  half  the  mother's, 

"Still  the  best  is  left,"  said  she: 
C'I  have  learned  to  live  for  others." 


The  Christmas  Tree.  121 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TEEE. 

WHERE  grows  the  Christmas  tree — 
The  green,  deep-rooted  Christinas  tree? 
By  what  brave  toil,  in  what  rich  soil, 

Can  spring  the  blooming  Christmas  tree? 
Is  it  from  prairies  broad  and  deep, 
"Where  future  harvests  softly  sleep, 
And  flocks  of  acres,  far  and  free, 
Lie  level  as  a  waveless  sea  ? 
Or  is  it  where  a  breeze-skein  twines 
Between  the  lofty-plumaged  pines  ? 
Or  where  sweet,  stealthy  Languor  roves 
Among  the  Southland  orange  groves  ? 
Or  blooms  it  best  'mid  city  homes, 
With  Wealth's  unnumbered  spires  and  domes? 
Or  is  it  where,  through  changeful  day, 
The  mountain  shadows  creep  arid  play, 
And  swift  a  gleaming  sun  flood  rides 
Along  the  tall  cliff's  dappled  sides? 
High  grows  the  Christmas  tree, 
The  sweet,  love-planted  Christmas  tree— 
Where'er  extends  the  hand  of  friends;   . 
Wherever  heart-caressings  be. 

What  bears  the  Christmas  tree — 
The  bright,  rich-fruited  Christmas  tree  ? 
What  gather  they,  expectant-gay, 

Who  throng  around  the  Christmas  tree  I 
Leaves  picked  by  love-instructed  art 
From  off  the  branches  of  the  heart; 
Fruits  culled  from  every  tree  and  vine 
Where  zephyrs  fly  and  sunbeams  shine. 


122  Other  Poems. 

Whate'er  can  brighten  to  our  gaze 
The  trembling  dawn  of  childhood  days; 
Whate'er  can  feed  more  clear  and  high 

o 

The  flame  of  youth's  expectant  eye ; 
Whate'er  can  make  more  richly  good 
The  blood  of  man  or  womanhood, 
Or  bid  old  age  look  smiling  round 
At  gems  of  earth- joy  newly  found  ; 
Whate'er  can  say,  "  While  strength  endures, 
My  life  has  love  and  help  for  yours." 
Rich  glows  the  Christmas  tree, 
The  heart-protected  Christinas  tree — 
With  tokens  dear  that  bring  more  near 
God's  earth-lent  love  to  you  and  me. 


"THE  SWEET,  LOVE-PLANTED  CHRISTMAS  TREE.' 


Autumn  Days.  125 


AUTUMN  DAYS. 

YELLOW,  mellow,  ripened  days, 

Sheltered  in  a  golden  coating; 
O'er  the  dreamy,  listless  haze, 

White  and  dainty  cloudlets  floating; 
Winking  at  the  blushing  trees, 

And  the  sombre,  furrowed  fallow; 
Smiling  at  the  airy  ease 

Of  the  south  ward -fly  ing  swallow. 
Sweet  and  smiling  are  thy  ways, 
Beauteous,  golden,  Autumn  days! 

Shivering,  quivering,  tearful  days, 

Fretfully  and  sadly  weeping; 
Dreading  still,  with  anxious  gaze, 

Icy  fetters  round  thee  creeping; 
O'er  the  cheerless,  withered  plain, 

Woefully  and  hoarsely  calling; 
Pelting  hail  and  drenching  rain 

On  thy  scanty  vestments  falling. 
Sad  and  mournful  are  thy  ways. 
Grieving,  wailing,  Autumn  days! 


126  Other  Poems. 


THE  FADING  FLOWER. 

THERE  is  a  dullness  in  the  air — 
A  coldness  in  the  smile  of  day; 

And  e'en  the  sunbeam's  crimson  glare 
Seems  shaded  with  a  tinge  of  gray. 

"Weary  of  journeys  to  and  fro, 

The  sun  low  creeps  adown  the  sky; 

And  on  the  shivering  earth  below, 
The  long,  cold  shadows  grimly  lie. 

But  there  will  fall  a  deeper  shade, 

More  chilling  than  the  Autumn's  breatb  : 

There  is  a  flower  that  yet  must  fade, 
And  yield  its  sweetness  up  to  death. 

She  sits  upon  the  window-seat, 
Musing  in  mournful  silence  there, 

While  on  her  brow  the  sunbeams  meet, 
And  dally  with  her  golden  hair* 

She  gazes  on  the  sea  of  light 
That  overflows  the  western  skies, 

Till  her  great  soul  seems  plumed  for  flight 
From  out  the  window  of  her  eyes. 

Hopes  unfulfilled  have  vexed  her  breast, 
Sad  smiles  have  checked  the  rising  sigh; 

Until  her  weary  heart  confessed, 
Reluctantly,  that  she  must  die. 


The  Fading  Flower.  127 

And  she  has  thought  of  all  the  ties — 

The  golden  ties — that  bind  her  here-, 
Of  all  that  she  has  learned  to  prize, 

Of  all  that  she  has  counted  dear; 

The  joys  of  body,  heart,  and  mind, 

The  pleasures  that  she  loves  so  well; 
The  grasp  of  friendship,  warm  and  kind, 

And  love's  delicious,  hallowed  spell. 

And  she  has  wept,  that  she  must  lie 

Beneath  the  snow-wreaths,  drifted  deep, 
With  no  fond  mother  standing  nigh, 

To  watch  her  in  her  silent  sleep. 

And  she  has  prayed,  if  it  might  be 

Within  the  reach  of  human  skill, 
And  not  averse  to  Heaven,  that  she 

Might  live  a  little  longer  still. 

But  earthly  hope  is  gone;  and  now 

Comes  in  its  place  a  brighter  beam, 
Leaving  upon  her  snowy  brow 

The  impress  of  a  heavenly  dream : 

That  she,  when  her  frail  body  yields, 

And  fades  away  to  mortal  eyes, 
Shall  burst  through  Heaven's  eternal  fields, 

And  bloom  again — in  Paradise. 


128  Other  Poems. 


PICNIC  SAM. 

You  youngsters  who  haven't  heard  of  Picnic  Sam, 
Just  gather  up  around  here  where  I  am, 
And  listen  sharp  while  memory  wanders  through  him, 
And  brings  out  what  he  seemed  like  when  I  knew  him. 
He  lived  in  one  of  those  high-stretched  affairs 
Called  tenements — up  any  amount  of  stairs; 
His  room  there,  when  the  tired  streets  he  forsook, 
Was  just  what  room  he  crowded  in  and  took. 
Though  he  "lived  high,"  he  never  had  the  gout, 
And  for  the  most  part  took  his  dinners  out. 
Breakfast  and  supper  were  not  in  his  way; 
His  motto  always  was,  One  meal  per  day; 
Or  rather,  maybe,  when  you  squarely  met  it, 
One  meal  per  day,  providing  I  can  get  it. 
His  garments — well,  you've  stood  and  looked,  perhaps, 
At  those  plump,  little,  beaming,  made-up  chaps, 
With  nobby  coats,  and  smiling,  painted  faces, 
The  clothing  dealer  in  his  window  places 
(To  make  meat  children  envious,  I  suppose); 
Well,  Sam  wasn't  dressed  at  all  like  one  of  those. 
Raiment  like  his  no  lively  lad  enjoys; 
It  had  been  cut  for  several  different  boys, 
And,  taking  garments  as  they  come  and  go, 
He  had  about  one  suit — or  nearly  so. 
Still,  dry-goods  are  of  life  a  small-sized  part : 
A  bad  coat  often  hides  a  first-class  heart. 
His  face  suggested,  to  the  casual  sight, 
A  bull-dog's  when  he's  waiting  for  a  fight; 
And  on  it  might  be  traced  full  many  a  streak, 
As  though  it  were  not  laundered  once  a  week. 


Picnic  Sam.  129 

And  yet  his  eyes  were  handsome,  for  a  fact 
(That  is,  of  course,  the  one  that  was  not  blacked, 
For  he  had  fighting — more  or  less — to  do) ; 
But  his  well  eye  looked  rather  good  and  true. 

You  youngsters,  gather  round  here  where  I  am — 
I'll  tell  you  why  they  called  him  Picnic  Sam. 
This  young  home-heathen  had,  by  day  and  night, 
A  genuine  first-class  picnic  appetite; 
And,  with  a  zeal  good  children  stood  in  fear  of, 
Attended  every  picnic  he  could  hear  of. 
When  Sunday-schools  were  going  to  have  "a  spread," 
He'd  always  join,  a  week  or  two  ahead ; 
And  though  no  "  verses "  he  had  ever  learned, 
Tried  to  look  serious  like  and  deep  concerned, 
And  (if  some  good  boy  he  was  sitting  near) 
Would  answer  every  question,  loud  and  clean 
'Twas  strange,  when  near  the  time  of  feasting  came, 
How  sure  a  school  was  to  get  Samuel's  name. 
"  Why,"  said  a  teacher,  rather  prone  to  scoff, 
"  He'll  smell  a  picnic  full  a  fortnight  off." 
'Twas  strange,  in  different  schools  he  ravaged  round  in, 
What  various  kinds  of  classes  he'd  be  found  in. 
Three  times  or  more,  he  gravely  tried  to  pass 
As  member  of  an  old  folks'  Bible  class; 
And  once  appeared  (rough  brick-bat  among  pearls) 
In  a  small,  timid  infant  class  of  girls ! 
But,  in  whatever  company  he  came, 
His  appetite  stood  by  him  all  the  same. 
No  picnic  near,  in  weather  foul  or  pleasant, 
But  Sam  and  stomach  managed  to  be  present. 
And  when,  with  innocent,  unconscious  air, 
He  placed  himself  at  table,  firm  and  square, 
With  one  eye  partly  closed,  the  other  looking 
Intently  at  the  different  styles  of  cooking; 
And  when,  with  savage-gleaming  knife  and  fork, 
He  brought  himself  down  seriously  to  work, 
And  marched  through  every  dish  in   conquering  glory, 
And  ravaged  all  the  adjacent  territory, 

9 


130 


Other  Poems. 

Making  the  table  for  some  distance  round 
Look  like  a  fiercely  hard-fought  battle-ground, 
A  smile  upon  his  placid  face  would  fall, 
As  if  life  wasn't  a  failure,  after  all. 

But  when  the  exciting  dinner-hour  was  gone 
Sam  always  seemed  uncalled  for  and  alone ; 
Felt  snubbed  and  frozen  and  made  quiet  game  of—   . 
Slights  that  he  didn't  even  know  the  name  of, 
But  which  he  sensed  as  keenly  (do  not  doubt  it) 
As  if  some  foe  had  told  him  all  about  it. 
He  always  felt  by  that  vague  feeling  haunted 
That  hangs  around  folks  when  they  are  not  wanted. 
Because  a  boy  is  greedy,  dull,  arid  droll, 
It  need  not  follow  that  he  hasn't  a  soul; 
Because  his  stomach  craves  more  than  its  part, 
It's  no  sign  he  was  born  without  a  heart ; 
Though  ragged,  poor,  or  coarse,  or  impolite, 
He  may  resent  a  wrong  or  feel  a  slight. 
'Tis  dangerous  work,  this  making  game  of  folks, 
Thinking,  perhaps,  they  do  not  heed  your  jckes. 
Don't  fool  yourself;  for,  ten  to  one,  they  know  it, 
And  feel  it  worse  in  laboring  not  to  show  it. 

Well,  on  one  day  particularly  fine, 
Sam  felt  himself  invited  to  help  dine 
With  (in  a  small  grove,  shady,  fresh,  arid  cool) 
A  recently  discovered  Sunday-school : 
Which,  when  he'd  joined,  he'd  muttered,  "This  '11  pass; 
It's  a  swell  crowd ;  the  board  '11  be  first-class." 
And  so  it  was;  and  for  an  hour  or  more 
Sam  slew  things  as  he  never  did  before, 
Wondering,  with  a  gastronomic  smile, 
Where  all  these  victuals  'd  been  all  this  long  while; 
And  made  the  teachers  feel  a  great  surprise 
That  they'd  so  underrated  their  supplies; 
And  in  his  stomach  could  not  but  confess 
That  life  to-day  was  one  good  square  success. 


Picnic  Sam. 

Then,  after  dinner,  feeling  cute  and  smart, 

He  tried  to  make  a  little  social  start, 

And  frisk  and  frolic  round,  like  any  other, 

And  be  accepted  as  a  boy  and  brother. 

Bnt  all  the  children  shrank,  with  scarce-hid  loathing, 

From  a  strange  lad  in  such  imperfect  clothing; 

And  soon  Sam's  face  a  misty  sadness  wore, 

As  if  to  say,  "I  b'lieve  I'm  snubbed  once  more." 

He  tried  to  put  them  under  obligations 

With  street  accomplishments  and  fascinations: 

In  turning  somersaults  and  hand-springs  led, 

Whistled  and  sang,  danced,  stood  Upon  his  head ; 

Even  tried  a  friendly  sparring  match ;  till  taken 

Right  in  the  act,  misunderstood,  and  shaken 

(By  the  strong  mother  of  the  lad  he  battled), 

Till  the  provisions  in  him  fairly  rattled. 

But  whatsoe'er  he  did,  discreet  or  bold, 

It  seemed  to  drive  him  farther  in  the  cold. 

The  grove  was  near  a  river;  on  whose  brink 
Samuel  sat  down,  with  lots  of  time  to  think, 
And  watch  some  light  boats  swiftly  past  him  go, 
With  happy  children  flitting  to  and  fro, 
Content  to  see  him  safe  and  dry  on  land. 
And  he  thought,  "No,  I  ain't  much  in  demand." 

Just  then  a  trim  young  miss  came  tripping  by? 
With  golden  hair,  and  more  than  handsome  eye ; 
And  Sam  remarked,  his  face  full  of  glad  creases, 
"  That's  the  smart  girl  that  scooped  'em  speakin'  pieces ; 
I  wonder  if  she  learned  hers  like  a  song, 
Or  made  the  speech  up  as  she  went  along? 
She  came  out  first,  though  last  upon  the  track, 
But  spoke  so  long  it  held  the  dinner  back ; 
Still,  what  she  said  was  sweet  an'  soothin'  rather, 
'Bout  how  'We  all  are  children  of  one  Father.' 
If  that's  so,  she's  half-sister  unto  me — 
At  least  I  think  I'll  speak  to  her,  and  see." 


J33 


134  Other  Poems. 

Then,  thinking  pleasantly  to  clear  the  way, 

He  shouted,  "Miss,  this  'ere's  a  pleasant  day." 

But  she  flounced  on,  more  haughty  than  before ; 

And  Sam  remarked,  "  I  b'lieve  I'm  snubbed  once  more." 

While,  roughly  sad,  the  boy  sat  musing  yet, 
He  heard  a  shout,  "  Help !  help !   our  boat's  upset !" 
And,  following  with  his  eyes  the  fear-edged  scream, 
Sam  saw  three  children  struggling  in  the  stream. 
And  two  were  rescued;  one  went  'neath  a  wave; 
The  waters  closed  above  her  like  a  grave. 
She  sank,  apparently  to  rise  no  more, 
While  frantic  crowds  ran  up  and  down  the  shore, 
And,  'mid  the  turmoil,  each  one  did  his  best, 
Shouting  first-class  instructions  to  the  rest. 
"  It's  the  swell  girl,"  thought  Sam,  "  that's  made  this  row .; 
I  wonder  how  she  likes  the  weather  now  ? 
I'd  save  her — if  it  wasn't  too  much  bother — 
'  Good  deeds  for  evil — children  of  one  Father.' 
I  rather  think  she's  gone  down  there  to  stay ; 
She  can't  be  yelled  up,  if  they  try  all  day. 
Wonder,  if  I  should  save  her,  'twould  be  bold  ? 
I've  dove  for  pennies — s'pose  I  dive  for  gold?" 
Then,  throwing  off  his  coat — what  there  was  of  it — 
He  plunged  into  the  water,  rose  above  it, 
Plunged  in  again,  and  came  once  more  to  air, 
Grasping  a  pretty  golden  tress  of  hair, 
And  a  fine,  stylish,  shapely  girl  attached, 
With  pale,  sweet  face,  and  lips  that  with  it  matched. 
He  held  her  up  till  strong  arms  came  from  shore ; 
And  soon  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  lived  once  more. 

But  Sam,  poor  boy,  exhausted,  choked,  and  beaten 
With  the  prodigious  dinner  he  had  eaten, 
Strangled  and  sank  beneath  the  river's  brim ; 
And  no  one  seemed  to  care  to  dive  for  him. 
Indeed,  'twas  hard  from  the  cold  waves  to  win  him. 
With  such  a  large  part  of  the  picnic  in  him ; 


Picnic  Sam. 

And  when  at  last  he  came  out,  with  "  a  haul," 
The  school  had  one  dead  pupil,  after  all. 

Poor  drenched,  dead  hero ! — in  his  tattered  dress, 
Sam  now  was  a  society  success. 
They  crowded  round  the  urchin,  as  he  lay, 
And  talked  about  him  in  a  mournful  way; 


135 


POOR,  DRENCHED,   DEAD    HERO !" 


And  from  the  teachers  efforts  did  not  lack 

To  resurrect  and  bring  their  scholar  back; 

They  thronged  about  him,  kept  from  him  the  air, 

Pounded  him,  pumped  him,  shook  him  up  with  care; 

But  useless  was  their  toil,  do  all  they  could : 

Sam  and  his  dinner  had  gone  on  for  good. 

Nothing  too  nice  that  could  be  done  and  said 
For  this  poor  fellow — now  that  he  was  dead. 
His  casket  was  the  finest  and  the  best; 
He  went  to  his  own  funeral  richly  dressed. 
They  rigged  him  out  in  very  pretty  trim; 
A  rich,  first-class  procession  followed  him, 
That  reached  the  farthest  distance  up  and  down 
Of  any  often  witnessed  in  that  town  ; 
And  all  the  children,  shedding  tears  half  hid, 
Threw  evergreens  upon  Sam's  coffin-lid. 


136  Other  Poems. 

You  youngsters  tempted  scornfully  to  smile, 
If  a  poor  boy  doesn't  come  up  to  your  style, 
Or  shrink  from  him  as  though  perhaps  he'll  bite  you, 
Because  he  has  some  points  that  don't  delight  you, 
Or  think,  because  your  "set"  can  do  without  him, 
There's  nothing  much  desirable  about  him, 
Just  recollect  that  squeamishness  is  sham, 
And  drop  a  kindly  thought  on  Picnic  Sam. 


One  and  Two. 


ONE  AND  TWO. 


IF  you  to  me  be  cold, 

Or  I  be  false  to  you, 
The  world  will  go  on,  I  think, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do ; 
The  clouds  will  flirt  with  the  moor>, 

The  sun  will  kiss  the  sea, 
The  wind  to  the  trees  will  whisper, 

And  laugh  at  you  and  rne; 
But  the  sun  will  not  shine  so  bright, 
The  clouds  will  not  seem  so  white, 

To  one,  as  they  will  to  two; 
So  I  think  you  had  better,  be  kind, 

And  I  had  best  be  true, 
And  let  the  old  love  go  on, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do. 


II. 

If  the  whole  of  a  page  be  read, 

If  a  book  be  finished  through, 
Still  the  world  may  read  on,  I  think, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do; 
For  other  lovers  will  con 

The  pages  that  we  have  passed, 
And  the  treacherous  gold  of  the  binding 

Will  glitter  unto  the  last. 
But  lids  have  a  lonely  look, 
And  one  may  not  read  the  book — - 

It  opens  only  to  two; 


138  Other  Poems. 

So  I  think  you  had  better  be  kind, 
And  I  had  best  be  true, 

And  let  the  reading  go  on, 
Just  as  it  used  to  do. 


Til. 

If  we  who  have  sailed  together 

Flit  out  of  each  other's  view. 
The  world  will  sail  on,  I  think, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do ; 
And  we  may  reckon  by  stars 

That  flash  from  different  skies, 
And  another  of  love's  pirates 

May  capture  my  lost  prize ; 
But  ships  long  time  together 
Can  better  the  tempest  weather 

Than  any  other  two; 
So  I  think  you  had  better  be  kind, 

And  I  had  best  be  true, 
That  we  together  may  sail, 

Just  as  we  used  to  do. 


Death-Doomed.  139 


DEATH- DOOMED. 

THEY'KE  taking  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — they  mean  to  hang  me  high ; 
They're  going  to  gather  round  me  there,  and  watch  me  till  I  die; 
All  earthly  joy  has  vanished  now,  and  gone  each  mortal  hope, — 
They'll  draw  a  cap  across  my  eyes,  and  round  my  neck  a  rope ; 
The  crazy  mob  will  shout  and  groan — the  priest  will  read  a  prayer, 
The  drop  will  fall  beneath  my  feet  and  leave  me  in  the  air. 
They  think  I  murdered  Allen  Bayne ;  for  so  the  Judge  has  said, 
And  they'll  hang  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me  till  I'm  dead ! 

The  grass  that  grows  in  yonder  meadow,  the  lambs  that  skip  and  play, 

The  pebbled  brook  behind  the  orchard,  that  laughs  upon  its  way, 

The  flowers  that  bloom  in  the  dear  old  garden,  the  birds  that  sing  and  fly. 

Are  clear  and  pure  of  human  blood,  and,  mother,  so  am  I! 

By  father's  grave  on  yonder  hill — his  name  without  a  stain — 

I  ne'er  had  malice  in  my  heart,  or  murdered  Allen  Bayne! 

But  twelve  good  men  have  found  me  guilty,  for  so  the  Judge  has  said, 

And  they'll  hang  rne  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me  till  I'm  dead! 

The  air  is  fresh  and  bracing,  mother ;  the  sun  shines  bright  and  high ; 

It  is  a  pleasant  day  to  live — a  gloomy  one  to  die! 

It  is  a  bright  and  glorious  day  the  joys  of  earth  to  grasp — 

It  is  a  sad  and  wretched  one  to  strangle,  choke,  and  gasp ! 

But  let  them  damp  my  lofty  spirit,  or  cow  me  if  they  can ! 

They  send  me  like  a  rogue  to  death — I'll  meet  it  like  a  man ; 

For  I  never  murdered  Allen  Bayne !  but  so  the  Judge  has  said, 

And  they'll  hang  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me  till  I'm  dead! 

Poor  little  sister  'Bell  will  weep,  and  kiss  me  as  I  lie ; 
But  kiss  her  twice  and  thrice  for  me,  and  tell  her  not  to  cry ; 
Tell  her  to  weave  a  bright,  gay  garland,  and  crown  me  as  of  yore, 
Then  plant  a  lily  upon  my  grave,  and  think  of  me  no  more. 


Other  Poems. 

And  tell  that  maiden  whose  love  I  sought,  that  I  was  faithful  yet; 

But  I  must  lie  in  a  felon's  grave,  and  she  had  best  forget. 

My  memory  is  stained  forever;  for  so  the  Judge  has  said, 

And  they'll  hang  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me  till  I'm  dead ! 

Lay  me  not  down  by  my  father's  side ;  for  once,  I  mind,  he  said 

No  child  that  stained  his  spotless  name  should  share  his  mortal  bed. 

Old  friends  would  look  beyond  his  grave,  to  my  dishonored  one, 

And  hide  the  virtues  of  the  sire  behind  the  recreant  son. 

And  I  can  fancy,  if  there  my  corse  its  fettered  limbs  should  lay, 

His  frowning  skull  and  crumbling  bones  would  shrink  from  me  away 

But  I  swear  to  God  I'm  innocent,  and  never  blood  have  shed! 

And  they'll  hang  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me  till  I'm  dead! 

Lay  me  in  my  coffin,  mother,  as  you've  sometimes  seen  me  rest: 
One  of  my  arms  beneath  my  head,  the  other  on  my  breast. 
Place  my  Bible  upon  my  heart — nay,  mother,  do  not  weep — 
And  kiss  me  as  in  happier  days  you  kissed  me  when  asleep. 
And  for  the  rest — for  form  or  rite — but  little  do  I  reck; 
But  cover  up  that  cursed  stain — the  black  mark  on  my  neck  ! 
And  pray  to  God  for  his  great  mercy  on  my  devoted  head ; 
For  they'll  hang  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me  till  I'm  dead! 


But  hark!     I  hear  a  mighty  murmur  among  the  jostling  crowd! 

A  cry  ! — a  shout ! — a  roar  of  voices ! — it  echoes  long  and  loud  ! 

There  dashes  a  horseman  with  foaming  steed  and  tightly-gathered  rein ! 

He  sits  erect ! — he  waves  his  hand ! — good  Heaven  !  'tis  Allen  Bayne ! 

The  lost  is  found,  the  dead  alive,  my  safety  is  achieved ! 

For  he  waves  his  hand  again,  and  shouts,  "The  prisoner  is  reprieved!" 

Now,  mother,  praise  the  God  you  love,  and  raise  your  drooping  head; 

For  the  murderous  gallows,  black  and  grim,  is  cheated  of  its  dead  I 


Up  the  Line. 


141 


UP  THE  LINE. 

THROUGH  blinding  storm  and  clouds  of  night, 
We  swiftly  pushed  our  restless  flight ; 
With  thundering  hoof  and  warning  neigh, 
We  urged  our  steed  upon  his  way 
Up  the  line. 

Afar  the  lofty  head-light  gleamed  ; 
Afar  the  whistle  shrieked  and  screamed; 
And  glistening  bright,  and  rising  high, 
Our  flakes  of  flre  bestrewed  the  sky, 
Up  the  line. 


Adown  the  long,  complaining  track, 
Our  wheels  a  message  hurried  back ; 
And  quivering  through  the  rails  ahead, 
Went  news  of  our  resistless  tread, 
Up  the  line. 

The  trees  gave  back  our  din  and  shout. 
And  flung  their  shadow-arms  about ; 


Other  Poems. 

And  shivering  in  their  coats  of  gray, 
They  heard  us  roaring  far  away, 
Up  the  line. 

The  wailing  storm  came  on  apace, 
And  dashed  its  tears  into  our  face; 
But  steadily  still  we  pierced  it  through, 
And  cut  the  sweeping  wind  in  two. 
Up  the  line. 

A  rattling  rush  across  the  ridge, 
A  thunder-peal  beneath  the  bridge; 
And  valley  and  hill  and  sober  plain 
Re-echoed  our  triumphant  strain, 
Up  the  line. 

And  when  the  eastern  streaks  of  gray 
Bespoke  the  dawn  of  coming  day, 
We  halted  our  steed,  his  journey  o'er9 
And  urged  his  giant  form  no  more. 
Up  the  line. 


Forward!  143 


FORWARD! 

THE  beast  that  counts  a  heart  can  feel  it  beat — 

The  man  who  counts  a  soul  can  feel  it  yearn ; 
The  while  it  guides  his  willing,  eager  feet, 

"Where  Triumph  calls,  and  Victory's  altars  burn. 

The  while  it  prompts  his  head  and  hands  to  earn 
That  which  shall  place  him  at  the  front:    the  when 

Human1' ty  his  merits  shall  discern, 
And  give  to  him  a  place  of  honor;    then 
Acknowledging  a  man  among  his  fellow-men  ! 

The  Fates  decreed  us,  at  the  birth  of  Time, 

The  Fates  decree,  arid  hold  the  fiat  still, 
That  they  \vlio  can  not  or  who  will  not  climb, 

Be  trampled  down  by  them  who  can  and  will. 

Philanthropists  may  take  the  doctrine  ill, 
And  nobly  lift  their  suffering  fellows  high  ; 

And  he  who  strives  to  clamber  up  the  hill, 
Though  weak,  has  help,  for  God  helps  them  that  try; 
But  he  who  will  not  strive  had  best  lie  down  and  die! 

For  hammer,  axe,  and  spade  will  vex  his  ears, 

And  spindles  whirl  about  his  idle  head  ; 
The  steamer's  shriek  will  rouse  his  feeble  fears, 

The  lightning-train  will  shake  him  in  his  bed  ! 

The  nets  of  cliques  and  clans  will  round  him  spread, 
And  Time — a  chariot  to  the  man  who  strives — 

Will  be  a  funeral  car,  and  he  its  dead, 
Till  he  unto  his  charnel-home  arrives. 
A  million  men  have  lived  good  corses  all  their  lives ! 

A  tiny  floweret  blossoms  under  foot, 
And  turns  its  dainty  petals  to  the  sky ; 


144  Other  Poems. 

Draws  life  from  earth  and  air,  through  leaf  and  root, 
While  yet  Destruction  broods  and  lingers  nigh. 
But  naught  that  seems  inaction  we  descry, 

Though  summer  wanes,  and  autumn  winds  are  cold  ; 
When  effort  fails,  the  plant  is  fain  to  die ; 

Its  energies  and  days  at  once  are  told ; 

And  soon  it  hangs  its  head  and  crumbles  to  the  mold. 

A  rainbow  arches  on  the  clouded  sky, 

But  ne'er  for  long  its  colors  flash  and  play; 
A  comet  shines  upon  the  gazing  eye, 

But  still  is  speeding  on  its  endless  way. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars — not  one  of  them  may  stay; 
For  not  an  orb — howe'er  it  seem  to  stand — 

But  marches  grandly  on  by  night  and  day, 
Nor  cares  nor  dares  to  halt,  without  command 
Of  Him,  the  mighty  Chief,  by  whom  the  route  was  planned, 

There  is  not  that  in  earth,  or  air,  or  space, 

There  is  not  that  in  heart,  or  mind,  or  soul 
(Save  in  one  sacred  and  mysterious  Place), 

But  hurries  forward  to  some  future  goal, 

Or  wanders  back  to  an  inglorious  whole, 
Wherefrom  it  sprung — whereto  it  turns  to  die; 

And  He  who  keeps  all  motion  in  control— 
Whom  change  and  dissolution  come  not  nigh — 
The  same  for  evermore — is  the  great  God  on  high. 

Man  loves  to  clamber  on  the  steeps  of  fame, 
Then  rest  awhile  his  wearied  limbs ;  and  yet 

Each  day  some  fellow-man  must  learn  his  name, 
To  stand  for  one  who  may  that  name  forget : 

Each  changing  year  his  altitude  must  grow ; 
Or,  twined  about  with  Comfort's  gaudy  net, 

His  indolence  may  plot  his  overthrow, 

And  he  may  plunge  into  the  deep,  dead  gulf  below. 

Yet  many  a  knight  who  mingles  in  the  broil 
Falls,  ere  his  sun  has  reached  its  highest  place : 


Forward!  145 

Death  strikes  the  strongest  reaper  in  his  toil, 

And  stops  the  swiftest  runner  of  the  race. 

But  time  is  short,  and  death  is  no  disgrace, 
But  rather,  to  the  faithful  man,  a  friend  ; 

And  leaves  a  glory  on  the  marble  face 
Of  him  who  holds  out  faithful  to  the  end — 
Whose  ways  are  brave  and  true — so  far  as  they  extend. 

Then  forward,  men  and  women  !    let  the  bell 

Of  progress  echo  through  each  wakened  mind  ! 
Let  the  grand  chorus  through  our  numbers  swell— 

Who  will  not  hasten  shall  be  left  behind  ! 

Who  conquers,  shall  a  crown  of  glory  find ; 
Who  falls,  if  faithful,  shall  but  fall  to  rise 

Free  from  the  tear-drenched  clay  that  clogs  mankind, 
To  where  new  triumphs  greet  his  eager  eyes ; 
FORWARD  will  ever  be  the  watchword  of  the  skies! 


10 


146  Other  'Poems. 


THE  SHIP-BUILDER. 

ACROSS  the  foaming,  word-lashed  sea  of  thought, 

Where  heavy  craft  were  struggling  with  the  storm, 
The  winds,  one  day,  an  unknown  vessel  brought, 

Of  flaunting  streamer  and  fantastic  form. 
Old  captains  shook  their  grizzled  heads  in  doubt, 
And  vainly  strove  to  make  the  stranger  out; 
And  critic  gunners  raised  their  ready  hand, 
To  fire  at  what  they  could  not  understand. 

But,  crowding  sail,  she  rode  the  dangerous  waves, 

Swept  past  old  wrecks  and  signals  of  distress, 
And  o'er  forgotten  hulks  and  nameless  graves, 

Straight  glided  to  the  harbor  of  success  ! 
The  weary  world  looked  for  a  little  while — 
Its  care-worn  face  grew  brighter,  with  a  smile ; 
Until  its  voice  caught  rapture  from  its  gaze, 
And  swelled  into  a  thunder-peal  of  praise ! 

The  outstripp'd  jester,  smiling,  dropped  his  pun  ; 

The  sage  looked  up,  with  pleased,  instructed  eyes; 
The  critic  raised  his  double-shotted  gun, 

And  jubilantly  fired  it  at  the  skies ! 
The  laboring  throng,  when  their  day's  toil  was  o'er, 
Crowded  along  this  unaccustomed  shore, 
And  viewed,  with  wonder  and  delight  oft  told, 
The  varied  treasures  of  her  deck  and  hold. 

For  there,  arrayed  in  quaint  and  genial  pride, 
Stood  Pickwick,  captain  of  the  motley  crew ; 

The  sturdy  Samuel  Weller  by  his  side, 
And  many  a  passenger  the  people  knew ; 


The  Ship-builder. 

And,  stored  among  this  cargo  of  new  mirth, 
Flashed  forth  the  brightest  diamonds  of  earth ; 
Treasures  of  Nature's  undissembled  arts; 
And  stores  of  food  for  hungry,  yearning  hearts. 

And  ever  as  they  gazed,  and  rushed  to  gaze, 

Came  sweeping  o'er  the  sea  another  gale, 
And  gleamed  upon  their  glad  eyes,  through  the  haze, 

The  welcome  whiteness  of  another  sail ! 
Rich  loaded  was  one  bark,  and  fair  to  see, 
But  aimed  great  guns  at  petty  tyranny ; 
And  as  she  swiftly  glided  safe  to  land, 
Young  Captain  Nickleby  was  in  command. 


There  came  a  ship  of  stranger  seeming  still, 

With  "Curiosities"  in  plenty  stored; 
And  thousands  crowded  'round  her,  with  one  will, 

To  view  the  passengers  she  had  on  board. 
And  one  there  was — her  name  was  "  Little  Nell  "• 
The  people  much  admired,  and  loved  full  well ; 
And  many  wept,  and  lingered  at  her  side, 
When,  wearily,  she  laid  her  down  and  died. 


148 


Other  Poems. 

So  one  by  one  to  port  the  vessels  came, 

Laden  with  comforts  for  both  rich  and  poor, 
But  hurling  balls  of  scorn-envenomed  flame 

At  tyrant,  rogue,  and  snob,  and  titled  boor. 
And  each  new  ship  the  multitude  flocked  'round, 
Rejoicing  o'er  the  treasures  that  they  found : 
And  as  each  new  sail  flashing  came  to  sight, 
Broke  forth  a  thousand  plaudits  of  delight ! 

And  so  the  millions,  eager  to  confess 

The  pleasures  they  from  his  creations  drew, 

Hastened  to  praise,  and  glorify,  and  bless 

The  toiling  man  whose  face  they  hardly  knew. 

Who,  in  his  lonely  room,  worked  for  his  goal, 

With  busy  brain,  and  tender,  yearning  soul ; 

And  with  his  good  pen  built  and  rigged  and  manned 

The  noble  argosies  his  genius  planned. 

But  one  bright  day  the  news  gloomed  o'er  the  earth 

That  he,  beloved  guest  of  many  lands, 
Had  gone  where  first  his  clear-eyed  soul  had  birth, 

Led  by  the  pressure  of  down-reaching  hands. 
No  monarch  resting  on  his  crape-strown  bed 
Had  e'er  such  tears  of  sorrow  o'er  him  shed, 
As  this  untitled  king  of  grief  and  mirth, 
"Whose  subjects  mourned  in  every  clime  of  earth ! 

O  master  of  the  heart !   if  in  yon  land 

Thou  canst  but  wander  through  its  streets  and  vales. 
And  then  before  the  countless  millions  stand 

And  tell  thy  merry  and  pathetic  tales, 
If  thou  canst  yet  thy  daily  toil  prolong, 
Plead  for  the  right,  and  battle  with  the  wrong, 
The  happiness  of  heaven  will  o'er  thee  spread, 
For  thou  thy  path  heaven-given  still  wilt  tread  1 


How  we  Kept  the  Day. 


HOW  WE  KEPT  THE  DAY. 


THE  great  procession  came  up  the  street, 
With  clatter  of  hoofs  and  tramp  of  feet; 
There  was  General  Jones  to  guide  the  van, 
And  Corporal  Jinks,  his  right-hand  man; 
And  each  was  riding  his  high  horse, 
And  each  had  epaulettes,  of  course  ; 
And  each  had  a  sash  of  the  bloodiest  red, 
And  each  had  a  shako  on  his  head ; 
And  each  had  a  sword  by  his  left  side, 
And  each  had  his  mustache  newly  dyed; 

And  that  was  the  way 

We  kept  the  day, 

The  great,  the  grand,  the  glorious  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray!  Hurray!  Hurray! 
(With  a  battle  or  two,  the  histories  say,) 

Our  National  Independence! 


II. 


The  great  procession  came  up  the  street, 
With  loud  da  capo,  and  brazen  repeat; 
There  was  Hans,  the  leader,  a  Teuton  born. 
A  sharp  who  worried  the  E  flat  horn ; 
And  Baritone  Jake,  and  Alto  Mike, 
Who  never  played  any  thing  twice  alike; 
And  Tenor  Tom,  of  conservative  mind, 
Who  always  came  out  a  note  behind; 
And  Dick,  whose  tuba  was  seldom  dumb, 
And  Bob,  who  punished  the  big  bass  drum. 


150  Other  Poems. 

And  when  they  stopped  a  minute  to  rest, 
The  martial  band  discoursed  its  best; 
The  ponderous  drum  and  the  pointed  fife 
Proceeded  to  roll  and  shriek  for  life; 
And  Bonaparte  Crossed  the  Khine,  anon, 
And  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me  came  on 

And  that  was  the  way 

The  bands  did  play 

On  the  loud,  high-toned,  harmonious  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray!  Hurray!  Hurray! 
(With  some  music  of  bullets,  our  sires  would  say,) 

Our  glorious  Independence! 


HI. 


The  great  procession  came  up  the  street, 

With  a  wagon  of  virgins,  sour  and  sweet; 

Each  bearing  the  bloom  of  recent  date, 

Each  misrepresenting  a  single  State. 

There  was  California,  pious  and  prim, 

And  Louisiana,  humming  a  hymn ; 

The  Texas  lass  was  the  smallest  one — 

Khode  Island  weighed  the   tenth  of  a  ton ; 

The  Empire  State  was  pure  as  a  pearl, 

And  Massachusetts  a  modest  girl; 

Vermont  was  red  as  the  blush  of  a  rose — 

And  the  goddess  sported  a  turn-up  nose; 

And  looked,  free  sylph,  where  she  painfully  sat, 

The  worlds  she  would  give  to  be  out  of  that. 

And  in  this  way 

The  maidens  gay 

Flashed  up  the  street  on  the  beautiful  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray  !  Hurray  !  Hurray  ! 
(With  some  sacrifices,  our  mothers  would  say,) 

Our  glorious  Independence! 


How  we  Kept  the  Day.  151 

IV. 

The  great  procession  came  up  the  street. 

With  firemen  uniformed  flashily  neat; 

There  was  Tubbs,  the  foreman,  with  voice  like  five, 

The  happiest,  proudest  man  alive; 

With  a  trumpet  half  as  long  as  a  gun, 

Which  he  used  for  the  glory  of  "Number  1 ;" 

There  was  Nubbs,  who  had  climbed  a  ladder  high, 

And  saved  a  dog  that  was  left  to  die; 

There  was  Cubbs,  who  had  dressed  in  black  and  blue 

The  eye  of  the  foreman  of  Number  2. 

And  each  marched  on  with  steady  stride, 

And  each  had  a  look  of  fiery  pride; 

And  each  glanced  slyly  round,  with  a  whim 

That  all  of  the  girls  were  looking  at  him ; 

And  that  was  the  way, 

With  grand  display, 

They  marched  through  the  blaze  of  the  glowing  day. 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray!  Hurray!  Hurray! 
(With  some  hot  fighting,  our  fathers  would  say,) 

Our  glorious  Independence! 


V. 


The  eager  orator  took  the  stand, 

In  the  cause  of  our  great  and  happy  land; 

He  aired  his  own  political  views, 

He  told  us  all  of  the  latest  news: 

How  the  Boston  folks  one  night  took  tea— 

Their  grounds  for  steeping  it  in  the  sea; 

What  a  heap  of  Britons  our  fathers  did  kill, 

At  the  little  skirmish  of  Bunker  Hill ; 

He  put  us  all  in  anxious  doubt 

As  to  how  that  matter  was  coming  out; 

And  when  at  last  he  had  fought  us  through 

To  the  bloodless  year  of  '82, 


152 


Other  Poems. 

'Twas  the  fervent  hope  of  every  one 

That  he,  as  well  as  the  war,  was  done. 

But  he  continued  to  painfully  soar 

For  something  less  than  a  century  more; 

Until  at  last  he  had  fairly  begun 

The  wars  of  eighteen-sixty-one ; 

And  never  rested  till  'neath  the  tree 

That  shadowed  the  glory  of  Kobert  Lee. 

And  then  he  inquired,  with  martial  frown, 

" Americans,  must  we  go  down?" 

And  as  an  answer  from  Heaven  were  sentr 

The  stand  gave  way,  and  down  he  went. 

A  singer  or  two  beneath  him  did  drop — 

A  big  fat  alderman  fell  atop; 

And  that  was  the  way 

Our  orator  lay, 

Till  we  fished  him  out,  on  the  eloquent  day 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray!  Hurray!  Hurray! 
(With  a  clash  of  arms,  Pat.  Henry  would  say,) 

Our  wordy  Independence! 


VI. 


The  marshal  his  hungry  compatriots  led, 

Where  Freedom's  viands  were  thickly  spread. 

With  all  that  man  or  woman  could  eat, 

From  crisp  to  sticky — from  sour  to  sweet. 

There  were  chickens  that  scarce  had  learned  to  crow. 

And  veteran  roosters  of  long  ago; 

There  was  one  old  turkey,  huge  and  fierce, 

That  was  hatched  in  the  days  of  President  Pierce; 

Of  which,  at  last,  with  an  ominous  groan, 

The  parson  essayed  to  swallow  a  bone; 

And  it  took  three  sinners,  plucky  and  stout, 

To  grapple  the  evil  and  bring  it  out. 

And  still  the  dinner  went  merrily  on, 

And  James  and  Lucy  and  Hannah  and  John 


How  we  Kept  the  Day.  153 

Kept  winking  their  eyes  and  smacking  their  lips, 
And  passing  the  eatables  into  eclipse. 

And  that  was  the  way 

The  grand  array 

Of  victuals  vanished  on  that  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray  !  Hurray  !  Hurray  ! 
(With  some  starvation,  the  records  say,) 

Our  well-fed  Independence! 


VII. 


The  people  went  home  through  the  sultry  night, 

In  a  murky  mood  and  a  pitiful  plight; 

Not  more  had  the  rockets'  sticks  gone  down, 

Than  the  spirits  of  them  who  had  "been  to  town;" 

Not  more  did  the  fire-balloon  collapse, 

Than  the  pride  of  them  who  had  known  mishaps. 

There  were  feathers  ruffled,  and  tempers  roiled, 

And  several  brand-new  dresses  spoiled ; 

There  were  hearts  that  ached  from  envy's  thorns, 

And  feet  that  twinged  with  trampled  corns; 

There  were  joys  proved  empty,  through  and  through, 

And  several  purses  empty,  too; 

And  some  reeled  homeward,  muddled  and  late, 

Who  hadn't  taken  their  glory  straight; 

And  some  were  fated  to  lodge,  that  night, 

In  the  city  lock-up,  snug  and  tight; 

And  that  was  the  way 

The  deuce  was  to  pay, 
As  it  always  is,  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray!  Hurray!  Hurray! 
(With  some  restrictions,  the  fault-finders  say.) 
That  which,  please  God,  we  will  keep  for  aye— 

Our  National  Independence! 


1 5  4  Other  Poems. 


OUR  AEMY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

BY  the  edge  of  the  Atlantic,  where  the  waves  of  Freedom  roar, 

And  the  breezes  of  the  ocean  chant  a  requiem  to  the  shore, 

On  the  Nation's  eastern  hill-tops,  where  its  corner-stone  is  laid, 

On  the  mountains  of  New  England,  where  our  fathers  toiled  and  prayed, 

Mid  old  Key-stone's  rugged  riches,  which  the  miner's  hand  await, 

Mid  the  never-ceasing  commerce  of  the  busy  Empire  State, 

With  the  country's  love  and  honor  on  each  brave,  devoied  head, 

Is  a  band  of  noble  heroes — is  our  Army  of  the  Dead. 

On  the  lake-encircled  homestead  of  the  thriving  Wolverine, 
On  the  beauteous  Western  prairies,  with  their  carpeting  of  green, 
By  the  sweeping  Mississippi,  long  our  country's  pride  and  boast, 
On  the  rugged  Eocky  Mountains,  and  the  weird  Pacific  coast, 
In  the  listless,  sunny  Southland,  with  its  blossoms  and  its  vines, 
On  the  bracing  Northern  hill-tops,  and  amid  their  murmuring  pines. 
Over  all  our  happy  country — over  all  our  Nation  spread, 
Is  a  band  of  noble  heroes — is  our  Army  of  the  Dead. 

Not  with  musket,  and  with  sabre,  and  with  glad  heart  beating  fast: 
Not  with  cannon  that  had  thundered  till  the  bloody  war  was  past; 
Not  with  voices  that  are  shouting  with  the  vim  of  victory's  note; 
Not  with  armor  gayly  glistening,  and  with  flags  that  proudly  float; 
Not  with  air  of  martial  vigor,  nor  with  steady,  soldier  tramp, 
Come  they  grandly  marching  to  us — for  the  boys  are  all  in  camp. 
With  forgetfulness  upon  it — each  within  his  earthy  bed, 
Waiting  for  his  marching  orders — is  our  Army  of  the  Dead. 

Fast  asleep  the  boys  are  lying,  in  their  low  and  narrow  tents, 
And  no  battle-cry  can  wake  them,  and  no  orders  call  them  hence  j 
And  the  yearnings  of  the  mother,  and  the  anguish  of  the  wife, 
Can  not  with  their  magic  presence  call  the  soldier  back  to  life; 


Our  Army  of  the  Dead.  155 

And  the  brother's  manly  sorrow,  and  the  father's  mournful  pride, 
Can  not  give  back  to  his  country  him  who  for  his  country  died. 
They  who  for  the  trembling  Nation  in  its  hour  of  trial  bled, 
Lie,  in  these  its  years  of  triumph,  with  our  Army  of  the  Dead. 

When  the  years  of  Earth  are  over,  and  the  cares  of  Earth  are  done, 

When  the  reign  of  Time  is  ended,  and  Eternity  begun, 

When  the  thunders  of  Omniscience  on  our  wakened  senses  roll, 

And  the  sky  above  shall  wither,  and  be  gathered  like  a  scroll ; 

When,  among  the  lofty  mountains,  and  across  the  mighty  sea. 

The  sublime  celestial  bugler  shall  ring  out  the  reveille, 

Then  shall  march  with  brightest  laurels,  and  with  proud,  victorious  tread, 

To  their  station  up  in  heaven,  our  Grand  Army  of  the  Dead  i 


Other  Poems. 


"MENDING  THE  OLD  FLAG." 

IN  the  silent  gloom  of  a  garret  room, 

With  cobwebs  round  it  creeping, 
From  day  to  day  the  old  Flag  lay — 

A  veteran,  worn  and  sleeping. 
Dingily  old,  each  wrinkled  fold 

By  the  dust  of  years  was  shaded; 
Wounds  of  the  storm  were  upon  its  form ; 

The  crimson  stripes  were  faded. 

'Twas  a  mournful  sight  in  the  day-twilight, 

This  thing  of  humble  seeming, 
That  once  so  proud  o'er  the  cheering  crowd 

Had  carried  its  colors  gleaming: 
Stained  with  mould  were  the  braids  of  gold, 

That  had  flashed  at  the  sun-ray's  kissing ; 
Of  faded  hue  was  its  field  of  blue, 

And  some  of  the  stars  were  missing. 

Three  Northern  maids  and  three  from  glades 

Where  dreams  the  South-land  weather, 
With  glances  kind  and  their  arms  entwined, 

Came  up  the  stair  together : 
They  gazed  awhile,  with  a  thoughtful  smile. 

At  the  crouching  form  before  them  ; 
With  clinging  holds  they  grasped  its  folds. 

And  out  of  the  darkness  bore  them. 

They  healed  its  scars,  they  found  its  stars, 
And  brought  them  all  together 


"Mending  the  Old  Flag:'  159 

(Three  Northern  maids  and  three  from  glades 

Where  smiles  the  South-land  weather) ; 
They  mended  away  through  the  summer  day, 

Made  glad  by  an  inspiration 
To  fling  it  high  at  the  smiling  sky. 

On  the  birthday  of  our  nation. 

In  the  brilliant  glare  of  the  summer  air, 

With  a  brisk  breeze  round  it  creeping, 
Newly  bright  through  the  glistening  light, 

The  flag  went  grandly  sweeping : 
Gleaming  and  bold  were  its  braids  of  gold, 

And  flashed  in  the  sun-ray's  kissing; 
Red,  white,  and  blue  were  of  deepest  hue, 

And  none  of  the  stars  were  missing. 


/    / 


UNIVEESITY    OF    CALIFOKNIA    LIBEABY, 
BEEKELEY 

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rec'd  circ.  APR  1 1  1983 


Farm  balleds 

IAR  12  \S&/&<&  i-. 


IMAR  6  1941 

APR 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


